


Sands of Time

by notFieryPen37 (orphan_account)



Series: Sands of Time Trilogy [1]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Romance, Time Travel, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 98,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3152444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/notFieryPen37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time a young fan fiction author wrote a DragonballZ tale that a lot of people liked called The Sands of Time trilogy.  It involved romance, time travel and angst, and focused on Bulma and Vegeta, but for now, this is all I know about it.  But then as time passed she decided she didn't follow the fandom anymore and took it down from fanfiction.net and media miner so as not to detract from her profile as an author for other fandoms.  This made some people sad, like me, as it disappeared after I read the first chapter.  I approached the author and asked her for the original document, which she gave me, and she agreed that I could post it on Archive of Our Own as an orphaned work.  That was a year ago, whoopsie!  But now I'm really going to do it!  I also forgot to read it!  So, I'll be posting as I read, and until the work is all up I'll be posting under this pseud.  When it's all up I shall orphan it.  You see, the original author doesn't want their name attached, but obviously doesn't want someone else to claim credit for their story.  I could say who she was maybe?  I'm not sure.  Let's just say, these stories are brought to you by the adjective Fiery, the noun Pen and the number 37.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Fight for the Future

Blood hung thick in his mouth, its metallic taste as bitter as the defeat at the hands of the metal monsters. Pale, beautiful, _human_ faces, but their eyes glowed red and their power was enough to destroy the world. Ash and smoke clogged the air, blotting out the sun. It was quiet now. The unholy twins had left to sow their seeds of destruction elsewhere. South City was all but destroyed. Buildings toppled, houses burning, concrete buckled and broken, pipes gushing water and sewage into the empty streets.

 

Gohan dragged himself from the crater made by his fall; brushing broken glass from the front of the orange gi he wore in honor of his father with his good hand. _Oh Daddy, if you hadn’t died, none of this would have happened . . ._ The male android, called 17 by his soulless sister, his toneless voice mocking, had thrown him to the ground. With his arm hanging useless at his side and blood seeping from the numerous cuts marring his body, Gohan wished he had been killed instead. Grief lodged in his throat and tears slipped down his cheeks.

Like Mister Piccolo.

Like Yamcha, Tien, Chouztsu, and Krillin.

Not even Vegeta’s Super Saiyan could stop them . . .

 

A loud cry broke the unnatural stillness and Gohan forced his tired, beaten body toward the noise, hope wrapping its silken threads around his heart. He knew that raw-throated, defiant cry, the cry of the Saiyan prince and his father’s greatest rival. A large section of roadway evaporated into glittering dust with an explosion of golden energy. Gohan’s heart beat fast at the sight of the pinnacle of his race, the power flowing off the older Saiyan like sunlight. His hair blond and eyes flashing green; Vegeta was indeed a sight to behold.

 

“Vegeta!” Gohan cried in delight. The smile died at the sight of him.

 

Weakened, Vegeta released the power and his hair and eyes faded to their normal black. There was a hole rent in his armor, and blood from the stomach wound pulsed freely, staining the fabric of his blue battlesuit. A blast had torn clean through his left shoulder, and one tattered, white-gloved hand seemed to be holding the bones together. A deep laceration darted across his forehead and blood trickled down the sharp lines of his eyebrows and nose, painting the world red. Vegeta cocked his head to one side and spat, his good hand swiping blood from his brow.

           

“Where are they, brat?” the deep baritone was rough with pain and shame. Gohan clenched his hands into fists to keep from offering assistance. He had known Vegeta long enough to know that any help would be taken as an insult.

 

“They’re gone, Vegeta. And everyone . . . everyone’s dead!” the tears welled up again, along with a futile rage. He dropped the prince’s burning black gaze and mastered his passion, sniffing softly like a frightened twelve-year-old boy and not a bloodied son of a warrior race. Vegeta cursed.

 

“Damn that Piccolo! Now we can’t even wish the fools back with the dragonballs!” Gohan’s sorrow evaporated and he glared at the older Saiyan.

 

“Don’t you dare say anything bad about Mister Piccolo! He was strong and brave and . . .”

 

“Stupid.” Vegeta finished, scowl deepening, “Barreling into battle like a blood-drunk animal when they struck you. He should have left it to me.” Gohan bit his lip at the memory of his mentor’s strong green arms snatching him from mid-air and carrying him to safety, taking the blast that was meant for him.

 

“But--”

 

“Enough!” Vegeta bellowed, staggering another step closer to Gohan, “I don’t have time to argue with you, brat! I--” then the Saiyan prince’s eyes rolled back and he blacked out.

 

“Vegeta!” Gohan cried, catching him before he hit the ground. His blood was warm and wet, soaking through Gohan’s gi within seconds. He was hurt. He was hurt very badly. _Kami, please don’t let him die too! I’ll be all alone!_ Gohan thought. Vegeta was the greatest tactician in the galaxy and had the power of a Super Saiyan. The Earth’s last defender, albeit a grudging one. And he did have a son now, baby Trunks . . . Slinging the injured prince over his shoulder, Gohan rose in the air and sped for West City with all the power that was left in him.

 

“Don’t die, Vegeta. Please . . .” he whispered to the upswept flame of his hair. The ground sped beneath him in a green and brown blur and with the wind in his ears he almost didn’t hear the whispered word.

 

“Brat . . .” whispered Vegeta.

 

“We’re almost there. Just hang on!” Gohan poured on more speed, pain tearing through his injured body and ki-depleted spirit.

 

“Gohan . . . stop.”

 

Taken aback both by the soft-spoken request and the use of his birth name as opposed to the generic terms of ‘brat’ or ‘half-breed,’ Gohan slowed and looked for a place to land. He set down under a shady tree over a hundred miles outside of West City. Gohan carefully lowered Vegeta’s body against the bark of the tree and knelt beside him.

 

“What is it, Vegeta? You’re hurt really bad. I don’t have any Senzu and Bulma has a regeneration tank . . .” Blood-reddened teeth bared in a feral smile, Vegeta let out a wheezy cough that would have once been a laugh.

 

“She’d probably tell me it was what I deserved.” Gohan frowned. Bulma loved him very much, Gohan could tell. There were times when he wondered how his dear friend Bulma could love such a proud, surly man like Vegeta.

           

Now, with her husband dying right in front of him, Gohan saw all he meant to hide. The mask of arrogance and anger he wore so carefully slipped away and Gohan saw him. He saw the lonely man, the sad man, the man who didn’t know what to do with the love he was feeling. Vegeta was breathing very slowly. The blood had caked on his face and torso, slowing with the erratic beats of his heart. The black eyes were still sharp and strong, smoldering with emotion. There was the pain of a thousand lifetimes, and regret. And love.

           

“You . . . you do the Saiyan race proud, Gohan. Remember who you are, the proud people you are descendent of . . .” His breath hitched and blood bubbled from his lips. Grief and fear frothed within Gohan and he fell forward on Vegeta’s chest, smelling blood and sweat and the sharp scent of his flickering ki.

 

“Don’t leave me, Vegeta! Don’t leave your family! Bulma and Trunks, they need you! I need you too! I can’t do this all by myself . . .” one heavy, white-gloved hand rested on his head, surprisingly comforting.

           

“A Saiyan warrior always keeps his pride. Fight and fight well. Guard my son, your prince, with your life.”

 

Gohan’s tearstained eyes met Vegeta’s burning ones and saw too, the deep love he had for his mate and son. Love he would not allow himself to show and denied feeling with the utmost vehemence.

           

“I will, Vegeta. I promise.”

 

A spasm of pain rocked Vegeta and his face twisted into a grimace. Underneath his palm, Gohan felt the prince’s heart slow. The fire was dimming in those bright black eyes, growing glassy. He felt his heart constrict. Here Gohan sat, blood-soaked in the dust while another of the Universe’s most powerful fighters spilled their lifeblood. As he had on Namek, weeping with emotion of a lifetime. Vegeta’s words slurred.

           

“T—te . . . ll . . . Bul . . . Bulma . . . tell her . . .”

 

Gohan gripped Vegeta’s strong hand between his, the cold rain of his tears washing the blood from his fingertips.

           

“What, my prince? What do you want me to tell her?” Vegeta’s face cleared of the scowl he habitually wore. An expression of beatific sorrow and longing painted the normally stoic face and Gohan wept to see it.  

 

“Tell Bulma I’m sorry.”

 

Then Vegeta, Prince of the Saiyan race and the Legendary Super Saiyan breathed his last.

           

“Vegeta?” Gohan asked softly, shaking his shoulder. The bright pinpoint of light, the singing brightness of a Super Saiyan that warmed Gohan’s consciousness died out. _I’m alone, I’m alone, I’m alone . . ._

           

 _“Vegeta?!”_   All was still. Tears sluiced down his cheeks and Gohan sobbed and clung to the Saiyan’s corpse as he had his father’s two years before.

All the pain and sorrow and helplessness in Gohan coalesced in the nexus of his being, pushing up, pushing out in a painful sunburst of golden light.

He screamed.

And a Super Saiyan was born.

**

“Hush now, Trunks, Momma’s got you,” Bulma crooned to her young son. Handsome face puckered in concentration, lavender hair ruffled, he howled in princely indignation at whatever had angered him. He was picking up on her stress as he always did, as he had when Goku died. Or maybe some part of his demi-Saiyan mind was feeling what was happening out there . . .

 

Bulma bit her lip to stifle the helpless tears that threatened. The past years seemed like something out of a nightmare. First Goku dying of a heart virus, then these androids, the twisted creations of Dr. Gero, how had it all gone horribly wrong? Poor Chi-Chi, she must have been lonely in the wilderness in the small house she had lived in with her husband, for took up Bulma’s offer to visit often in these past months and she could faintly hear her downstairs, bustling around the kitchen as if her only son and all her friends weren’t out fighting for their lives. Bulma admired her strength. She didn’t know what she would do if Vegeta was taken from her so suddenly, so cruelly. But hadn’t he left of his own accord—off to train in space without any ‘Earthling distractions’ as he put it? Bulma pushed down the familiar rush of anger and took in a shaky breath, quieting the turmoil of her emotions, seeking calm for Trunks’ sake.

 

Trunks’ hands fisted in her shirt and his tail wrapped around her wrist. As she rocked and hummed a lullaby to him, she stared at the chocolate brown appendage around her wrist. Chi-Chi had cautioned her, telling her to cut it off before his second birthday, lest he see the full moon and transform. But Bulma wanted to keep it. His tail was the only thing that convinced her that what had happened between her and Vegeta was real, that it was a demi-Saiyan child she held in her arms. He had given her a son. Her thumb strayed to the small bite mark on her neck. Their first night together, Vegeta had bitten her and . . . and ever since then, she could feel his presence inside her head and her heart.

At least, she had until an hour ago.

 

Had the link broken because of the distance between them? Was he injured? Trunks distracted her from her thoughts by letting out a screeching wail of pain and anger. In the same instant, a cold knife buried itself in her heart and she felt sick.

 

“Vegeta . . .” she whispered. She swallowed hard, all her hurt and anger dissipating under the weight of a single thought. What if Vegeta was dead? What if the androids had killed him?

 

The next hour she spent fruitlessly soothing Trunks and worrying for all that she loved, until at last, he fell into an exhausted sleep. As she set her sleeping son in his cradle, she heard the front door open and the murmur of Chi-Chi’s voice as well as a lower, softer register.

           

“Put him there, on the couch . . . dear Kami . . .”

 

Her heart filled with dread. Bulma tore down the stairs, flinging herself into the room. What she saw tore her heart from her chest by its roots. The images rushed at her in snatches. The horror-struck, hollow look on Chi-Chi’s face. The dying sunlight spilling through the open doorway, illuminating the plume of smoke rising from the destroyed South City. Gohan, soaked with blood, swaying on his feet with exhaustion. And the familiar black spikes of hair . . .        

Laying his burden gently on the couch, Gohan sank to the floor staring at the soles of his boots. _The poor boy,_ Bulma thought disconnectedly _, only twelve and weight of the world on his shoulders._

 

Then Bulma had no thought but for the still form on the couch. Kami, there was so much blood! Her hands shook as she brushed her finger against his cold cheek, so warm, nearly scorching in life. She traced the line of his brow, relaxed in death as it had never been in life, even when he slept. Always so serious, so mysterious, so irresistible . . .

Her grief broke over her like a wave. Releasing a keening cry like a dying animal, Bulma fell upon Vegeta’s still chest.

 

“Damn you Vegeta, you selfish bastard! You didn’t even say goodbye!” she wailed, weeping for all the pain in her broken heart, ignoring Chi-Chi’s hand on her shoulder, or Gohan calling her name. All she knew was that Vegeta, the love of her life and the father of her son was dead.

 

And nothing, _nothing_ would keep her from trying to bring him back.


	2. Warriors Prepare

Fourteen years later . . .

 

_“Confirmed reports say that the androids have attacked North City . . . more on this story as it develops.”_

 

Trunks jabbed his finger against the power button on his mother’s air car radio. There was an audible crack as the mechanism broke. His mother’s knowing blue eyes met his, stern and beautiful. The wind whipped her long blue hair behind her and Trunks thought that for a moment she looked more like a carefree youth than his serious mother.

  

“Taking your anger out on helpless machinery won’t do you any good, hun.” A flare of anger swept through him, his ki flickering to life in a soft blue glow.

 

“Then let me fight them, Mother! I can’t stand sitting on the sidelines like this!”

 

His fists clenched on his knees, struggling to master the rage that built in him. Damn those androids! They robbed him of everything: his home, his life, his peace of mind, his father . . .

He heard his mother sigh as they began the well-worn argument. Ever since Trunks had learned to fly at age three, he had taken it into his head that he could fight the androids. It was his right after what they had done.

 

“No Trunks! I can’t let you do that! Haven’t we lost enough? I’ll not risk losing my only son to--”

 

Trunks tore off his seatbelt. His mother’s delicate hand closed around his wrist. Fear, anger, and the slightest glimmer of pride burned in her blue eyes.

 

“Trunks. Please.”

 

Trunks frowned. Was this the look his father and all the Z fighters saw when they left to die in battle? The look of earth-shattering fear and a love so deep it was almost grief?

 

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

 

Trunks rose in the air and rocketed toward North City. By the time he arrived, the androids were already gone. There was nothing left of the city except shattered buildings and destroyed homes. Trunks landed, black rage and pain bubbling up in his throat. Corpses lay strewn across the street like trash. Men, women, children, crushed beneath the debris or pierced carefully through the heart by ki. An execution. Tears stung the backs of his eyes. Over ten years and the entire world had been laid to waste. Over half the Earth’s population had been killed. No one was safe. A familiar pinprick of ki sparked in his brain and Trunks turned to see Gohan land on the crumbled roof of a nearby office building.

 

“Gohan! Why are they doing this? Killing all these innocent people! They deserve to die!”

**

Gohan looked down at Trunks, taking in every change from the last time he had seen him three years ago: from the length of his lavender hair to his power level. It was high, impressively high for a boy of his age. A lifetime of helplessness had whetted Trunks’ strength. Seeing the blazing anger burning in his eyes and the thunderous scowl stretched across his face, Gohan saw Vegeta painted in Bulma’s colors. He remembered the vow he had sworn to Vegeta as he died. He had sworn to protect his son with his life.

A son of Goku would never break such a promise.

 

 

 

 

 

He followed Trunks back to Capsule Corp for the night. What he had seen hit Trunks hard as it had Gohan himself all those years ago. He fought to conceal his emotion, but the tears slipping down his cheeks betrayed him. His voice was low and dark with enraged passion, cursing the imprisoning fear and pain that held the world hostage. Gohan looked out of the cracked window, remembering a time when the garden had been lush with life. Now there was nothing but broken concrete and weeds among the dead plants.

 

“I was your age when the androids attacked. I watched people die, just like you. I know how it feels, Trunks, to watch your world burn and be unable to do anything about it. That’s why I’m going to train you. From now on, I am the master and you are my pupil. You have great power sleeping inside you, Trunks.”

 

The boy’s face brightened and he flashed a blinding smile, his Saiyan blood quickening with the thought of a good, bloody fight.

 

“You mean it, Gohan? You’ll make me stronger?”

 

 Gohan allowed a sad grin and laid a hand on Trunks’ shoulder.

 

“Yes. You will be strong, Trunks.”

 

Gohan knew some terrible loss or emotional trigger was required for the transformation as well as high ki. For Trunks, his soul callused by being surrounded by death and sorrow for some many years, it would take the death of his mother or Gohan himself before he made the leap. Gohan pitied the boy. Both for the pain he must endure, and for the fact that this terrorized, evil world was all he knew of life. Gohan, at least, remembered happier times when his father had been alive, of the comforting worries of his mother over his education and the warmth of love surrounding him.

 

Bulma’s voice broke the stillness between the two Saiyans and Gohan felt his heart leap with joy. She entered the room carrying a large sack of groceries. Gohan felt a subterranean purr of hunger even as he raised a hand in greeting. With dismay, he noted how heavily the years weighed on Bulma. Not that she looked much older, she was still very beautiful, but there was an air of sadness and cool maturity when Gohan could easily remember her carefree laughter and outbursts of burning temper. Bulma snapped a dry quip at her son and Gohan stifled a grin. Maybe she hadn’t changed that much after all.

 

The next day at dawn, he and Trunks flew to the coast to begin their training. Gohan was not disappointed. For his age, he was extraordinarily strong. It was technique he lacked and days, then weeks of near constant training whetted his inborn ability to a blade’s edge. After a particularly intense bout ending with Trunks half-drowning in the sea, he asked about his father.

 

“You knew my father pretty well, didn’t you, Gohan?”

 

He grunted in reply. At Gohan’s stern, wondering glance, Trunks ducked his head shyly and muttered, “Well, my mom doesn’t say much about him. I think it hurts too much, you know? Anyway, do you think . . . do you think you could tell me a little bit about him?” looking into his bright blue eyes—Bulma’s eyes—set into the face that was every inch Vegeta’s, Gohan remembered with bitter clarity the Saiyan prince’s dying moments.

 

“He was tough. Extremely powerful. Arrogant, and extremely proud.”

 

 _And he loved you in spite of himself,_ Gohan wanted to say. But what had Bulma told him of the man who shattered her heart into a thousand glittering fragments, leaving her to pick up the pieces with her young son in her arms?

 

Gohan stared off into the horizon, remembering her hysterical weeping upon seeing Vegeta dead. Without a doubt, she had loved him. And through her grief, Gohan had whispered Vegeta’s dying words to her. If anything, it had driven her deeper into the fires of pain. She had let out a keening moan and clutched Vegeta’s lifeless body to her chest. Gohan cursed his youthful ignorance. He was so intent on keeping his vow to the dead Saiyan prince that he had not thought how Bulma would feel upon hearing that Vegeta had loved her and was now lost to her forever. No, better Trunks know his father as the arrogant bastard than feel the deep ache of a love denied. Trunks managed a small smile.

 

“That’s about as much as Mom says about him.” Gohan stood and offered Trunks a hand.

 

“Enough talk. Let’s get back to work.”

**

The schematics on the computer screen blurred before her eyes. Bulma groaned, glancing at the clock. Three-thirty in the morning. Not even six cups of coffee could coax her mind to the task at hand. By all accounts, by every scrap of scientific research loaded into her father’s extensive databases, she was mad. She was mad to even entertain the idea.

But there it was.                                                                                   

So much would be different. This whole horrible future, gone in a second, erased as if it never was. Even now, the thought of such a sterling prize made her heart beat fast with something she dared not touch in fourteen years.

 _Hope_.

If only they had been warned. If only Goku hadn’t gotten sick. They had found the cure only months after his death. If only she could go back in time and tell him . . .

The thought festered within her, burgeoning even as she shut off her computer, showered, and stretched out on the cold, empty bed. Goku, Yamcha, Krillin, all of them would be alive . . . _He_ would be alive, sleeping beside her.

 

“Vegeta . . .” she whispered, slipping into a troubled sleep.

 

It was no surprise that she dreamed of him.

It was also no surprise that he was making love to her. She could taste the salt of his sweat, feel the strength of his iron-hard muscles flexing, her own body trembling in the feral joy of loving him. Black eyes seared, drilling into her as if to hold her there, as if at some crucial moment, she would decide she no longer wanted him. How could she ever have thought his eyes cold? Vegeta carried wars within his eyes, of pain and passion and, she hoped, something deeper. Passion burned as hot as the power he wielded so casually, burning palpably between them. Fisting her hands in his spiky black hair, she dragged his mouth to hers as he moved within her.

 

Pleasure raced through every synapse of her body and she dragged her fingernails lightly down his back, feeling him shudder. Her fingers found the round scar at the base of his spine, the remnant of his Saiyan tail. He tore his mouth from hers to groan. His hips bucked, driving him deep and hard inside her. The timbre of his voice was soft and raw, echoing inside Bulma’s chest.

 

“Keep that up, woman, and you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

 

Bulma laughed, the sound turning to a gasp as he nuzzled her neck, drawing her recalcitrant hand up to bite each of her fingers gently. The pace was swift and strong, as rough as he could be without hurting her. It was a terrifying new dimension of him: a man could—and had—destroyed worlds with a flick of his wrist, could also be so careful with her.  Her release ravaged through her with all the subtlety and gentleness of a tidal wave and with a primal growl, he followed her.

 

The sweet tension ebbed from his powerful body and he drew her lower lip between his teeth, biting it gently in his animal race’s version of a kiss. Vegeta moved to lie beside her, nipping her earlobe and then her throat in what she had learned to be his love play. Vegeta was as feral and deadly as a wild animal, wicked, powerful, beautiful and more than a little mad. And Kami help her, she loved him.

 

“Bulma.”  

 

He only spoke her name in these tender moments after their passion was spent and before sleep came to claim them. His hand, as smooth and hard as steel, slid down to cup her belly.

 

“He grows strong.”

 

The dreamy afterglow evaporated at his words and she shot bolt upright. The time of her period had come and gone. Bulma had been afraid of his reaction. Sure, he slept with her, and she could always vaguely feel him even though she could not sense ki, but to have his child? Vegeta seemed to sense her thoughts, for he roughly jerked her chin to face him.

 

“You’re mine, woman. And the brat has the blood of a prince running through his veins. He will be strong. Stronger than Kakkarot’s brat.”

 

Bulma pulled away from his touch, confused emotions tangling within her. As much as she enjoyed the fact that Vegeta had claimed both her and her baby as his, it wasn’t enough.

 

“Is that all I am to you? Your w—whore? A warm body for your bed and a womb for your heir?”

 

A muscle fluttered in Vegeta’s cheek as his jaw clenched. Anger flashed in his black eyes and he grasped her wrist, squeezing until she yelped in pain. The grip loosened fractionally.

 

“What more do you want from me, woman? I’ve stayed on this mudball planet with you, I satisfy you in your bed, I gave you a son! Do you want me to gush about my foolish emotions? You want love?” He spat the word as if it tasted foul, “I don’t have the capacity for it. It and any other emotions besides hate and anger were burned from me long ago. I will be faithful to you, I will protect you and the brat, but I cannot love you.”

 

“Can’t? Or won’t?” she shot back, calling his bluff. His eyes hardened to obsidian stones.

 

“I don’t have time for this. I have to train.” He rose, pulled on his training pants and flew out the window, ignoring her cries of protest.

 

Bulma woke with the bitterness of memory thick in her mouth. Vegeta had been a grade-A, bona fide asshole. But he had also been a man of his word. He had been faithful to her, something Yamcha couldn’t do even though he loved her. And he had died protecting her and Trunks.    

Bulma sighed and rose, ambling down the stairs for breakfast. Trunks was gone and Bulma smiled. The boy thought she didn’t know that he had gone with Gohan to train. She shook her head, relieved that Trunks had found a constructive outlet for his anger. _And,_ she thought pragmatically, _if Trunks decides to try and fight the androids, he will at least know what he’s doing._ She was grateful too, for the privacy his absence offered. She could spend the whole day in her lab without distraction. Bulma caught herself and snorted.

 

“Kami, I’m starting to sound like Vegeta!” 

 

Bulma spent the morning tending to practical matters like food, water, and electricity for the massive complex of Capsule Corp, which now housed thousands of refugees. She blessed her father’s foresight in the building of an interconnected series of bunkers blooming like an ant’s nest below ground, each with high-powered generators and stocked medical supplies. After fourteen years, the stores had run down, but none of refugees came empty-handed, or remained so long. Grateful for a sense of safety, they sought to repay her for her kindness by offering their services as scavengers or workmen. The lunch hour passed and still no Trunks. Bulma threw herself into her work to distract herself from her worry. She kept an ear cocked to any sound below, the creak of a door, or the sound of step.

 

The construction designs of a time machine weren’t all that difficult, she could take the turbines from the Namekian ship for high-speed space travel. But what could she use to increase the speed to a speed faster than light? How would she navigate? Temporal and quantum physics said it was impossible. But she was the daughter of Earth’s brightest genius, and a brilliant mind in her own right.

Now, she would need a synthetic coolant to keep the turbines stable . . .

 

When the sun’s dying rays were creeping through the window, a crash below woke her from a light doze. Bulma shot to her feet and bolted down the stairs. Trunks stood there, scuffed and his clothes torn, with Gohan slung over his back.

 

“What happened, Trunks?”

 

Ice gripped her heart, remembering a similar scene. A young boy carrying home the limp body of fallen warrior . . . Then Gohan grimaced, teeth clenched against the pain. Her son’s blue eyes were haunted, and oddly guilty. What had happened out there?

 

“To be blunt,” he growled, “we got beat up.”

 

Bulma snapped out of her frozen daze and pointed to the bed.

 

“Set him there, Trunks. We need to get him stable. The tank doesn’t remove shrapnel . . .”

 

Trunks laid his master on the bed and helped her through the sickening process of removing shards of glass, metal and stone from Gohan’s wounds even as his screams echoed throughout the small room.

Her brave young warrior.

 

When at last it was over, and Gohan was floating in the healing blue waters of Bulma’s regen tank, she turned her attention to Trunks.

 

“The schematics from Goku’s space pod were incomplete. I tried my best to replicate it, but it won’t be a complete healing. He will be whole, but scarred.”

 

Trunks dragged his attention from Gohan’s face to look at her. He managed a trembling smile.

 

“You did great, Mom. Gohan is alive because of you. I mean, who else’s mom could fly a spaceship to another planet single-handedly?”

 

Bulma smiled. The stories of their adventures on Namek were Trunks’ favorite. She laid a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Are . . . are you, okay, Trunks? It must have been pretty rough out there today.” 

 

Her concern touched whatever teetering wall that kept his emotions in check. With a sob, he flung himself into her arms, squeezing her hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. He loosened his grip and looked up at her. Bulma’s heart broke for her son and she flicked the strands of lavender hair from his face. He backed out of her embrace and stood, trembling with rage or fear or both, fists balled at his sides.

 

“They’re too strong, Mom. I can’t . . . even together we weren’t . . . she was toying with me! That metal bitch was playing, like it was a game and I was her new toy. Damn them!”

 

The impotent fury that coated his words frightened Bulma. The cold knot of fear that had driven lesser people mad in this terrorized world expanded in her belly.

If she lost Trunks . . .

 

“There is another way.” she said softly.

 

Trunks’ head snapped up, silky lavender hair swaying. Folding his arms over his chest in a perfect imitation of his father, he said in a prince’s voice, “Explain.”

 

“We could make it so none of this ever happened. All record of Gero and where and when he created those monsters was lost but . . . but if we could only warn them . . .”

 

“Mom?”

 

She looked up to find Trunks staring at her as if she was crazy. She felt a moment of doubt and worry. Was she crazy? Had Vegeta’s death driven her mad?

 

“Oh Trunks, it could work. I could make it work. I only need to build the time machine and everything will be all right again.” Trunks’ face darkened.

 

“No. We don’t need a time machine. When I get stronger, I’ll destroy them both with my bare hands.”

 

 Bulma snorted. So it wasn’t that she was crazy, but she infringed on her son’s damned Saiyan pride. She swallowed her anger and bitter words that waited on her tongue. With Gohan injured and her son in a delicate emotional state, she had more important things to spend her energy on. The thought made her smile grimly. An apocalypse went a long way to changing a person. Before the androids, before Goku’s death, she would have yelled her throat raw to make her point.

 

“Well, maybe you won’t have to kill them with your bare hands.” 

 

Trunks flinched and eyed her warily. He had braced himself for the hot lash of her temper and as a wise warrior, was suspicious of her change in tune.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Bulma smiled at her son and pulled a capsule from her pocket. Depressing the plunger, she dropped the capsule and the object of long hours of work lay on the floor when the puff of orange smoke cleared.

 

“I started working on this when Gohan started training you.” at his surprised look, she giggled.

 

“Yes Trunks, I knew. It’s in your blood to want to fight. Goku would go away for weeks at a time to train and Vegeta would have lived in the Gravity Room if his Saiyan stomach didn’t demand that he emerge to eat . . .” she trailed off at the shining look Trunks shot her. She was struck with the realization that Trunks treasured any scrap of knowledge about his father and made a mental note to do so more often, both the good and the bad. Bulma was not so afraid of remembering if she did so for her son’s sake. She would turn back time for her son.

 

“C—could I train in the Gravity Room, Mom? I’m strong now.” Bulma bit back the urge to cradle him to her chest. A fourteen year old Saiyan prince would resent what he saw as un-warriorlike behavior.

 

“I know you are, hun. And I know the G.R. would help you get even stronger, but when the androids attacked West City a year ago, they blew it up. I’ll rebuild it for you, but it will take some time.”

 

 Trunks surprised her with a kiss on the cheek and Bulma nearly glowed with the affection. As the years passed, she watched as Trunks turned inward, growing reserved and coolly observant. A small thrill ran through her at his easy display of love and the thought of the child he would have been had the monsters of a nightmare not haunted his every step. There was a ferocity in him that matched every one of his race, especially his father, as well as a deep-seated pride and diamond-hard sense of self. Drawing herself from her thoughts, she picked up the sword she had made and held it flat on her palms so Trunks may see.

 

“I made it from an alloy similar to the carbonized material used to make Saiyan armor. It won’t melt in your ki and it would take something like one of your father’s Gallic Guns to even scratch it. I thought if you wore it at your hip like most Earth swordsmen, it would interfere with your kicks. So I made the sheath to fit across your back. A bit awkward, but--”

 

A warm, strong hand rested lightly on her arm. Tears shone in Trunks’ eyes and he accepted the blade with near-reverent hands.

  

“It’s perfect, Mom. Thank you.”


	3. Ghost of the Past

In the weeks that followed the disastrous attack on the amusement park, Gohan and Trunks trained with a new zeal. The Saiyan blood running through their veins had doubled their strength as they healed from their injuries.  And as Gohan watched the boy power up, his ki spiraling higher and higher, teetering on the cusp of Super Saiyan, Gohan felt a warm sense of pride in the boy’s accomplishment. Both as a mentor and a brother, Gohan loved Trunks. He loved how the calm and serious exterior melted away when deep emotion was sparked in him, whether it be anger or love or the primal need to protect his own.

 

He felt the stirrings of regret at the thought of leaving him so soon. But after years of war, Gohan knew that with no left arm, he had no chance of defeating the androids. He was as helpless as he was during the battle that killed every other Z warrior. It was a sobering thought, and a bitter one.

But there was Trunks to succeed him.

Trunks was his hope.

The boy had a cunning, an icy clear-headedness in battle that was almost frightening. There was no variable he did not consider.

In that way, he was a tactician like his father.

 

The soaring of Trunks’ blue-green ki, tinged with gold, abruptly ceased and the boy fell to his knees. Gohan floated over to him, the wind tugging at his empty sleeve.

 

“Damn it!” Trunks yelled, slamming his fist into the ground.

 

The blazing blue eyes seared up into Gohan and in that instant he saw the full scope his rage and hate and shame. The haunted potency of him chilled Gohan’s good heart. He lowered himself down and stretched out in the tall grass, watching the clouds float idly by. He heard Trunks follow his lead. His voice, still hoarse from all the screaming, broke the idyllic stillness.

 

“Why can’t I do it, Gohan? You are my master. What am I doing wrong?”

 

Gohan frowned as he looked at his pupil. Did he feel like a failure for not being able to ascend? Super Saiyan was the pinnacle of the Saiyan race; both of their fathers had worked their whole lives for it. _You are stronger than you give yourself credit for, Trunks. Trust that strength. You will need it._

 

“You’re doing just fine, Trunks. All you need a trigger. For me it was seeing what those androids did to Mister Piccolo, Krillin and . . .” he trailed off, biting back Vegeta’s name. The ghost of the boy’s father would not haunt them today. Trunks would go through enough.

 

“The deep wound of that loss turns to rage and it fills your whole body, tearing through you in an explosion of power and pain. That is Super Saiyan, Trunks. Great power, borne of great loss.”

 

Gohan saw his words sink in and rabid fear well up in those blue eyes. He caught also, the minute tremor of Trunks’ fingers around the sword his mother had made for him. No swordsmaster himself, Gohan had told Trunks to learn with his own instincts and he improved by leaps and bounds, the blade becoming an extension of his mind and body. He knew he could not soften the blow of his words, or offer platitudes of their assured safety. It would be a lie. Years of such living had branded the uncertainty of survival into their minds. He watched Trunks wrestle with the knowledge, scowling as he did so.

 

For hours after that, they simply lay looking up at the sky, talking about unimportant things. The sun was warm and the grass idly caressed them in ghosting, tickling touches. Gohan’s eyes felt heavy and he imagined himself back home on Mount Pao with his mother about to call him in to dinner, his father and Mister Piccolo training in the yard. Then the sky was afire, and two figures emerged from the flames, their slanted blue eyes as cold and empty as their souls. His eyes snapped open.

 

To his dying day, the metal monsters of Gero’s design would haunt him. He rolled over on his side to find Trunks fast asleep, clutching his sword to his chest like a toddler clinging to a favorite toy. Gohan smirked and brushed the boy’s hair from his eyes in tender affection. Had he had both of his arms, he would have let Trunks sleep and carried him home. Instead, he gently shook him awake. Trunks awoke with a start, jerking his sword a few inches from its sheath when he focused on Gohan. He shook his head marginally and watched Trunks relax.

 

“Come on. Let’s get you home. Bulma might have some food for us.”

Trunks rose, stretching the kinks out of his muscles with a yawn. He buckled his sword across his back and glanced wryly up at Gohan.

 

“Is that all you think about? When your next meal is?” Playfully, Gohan flicked Trunks between the eyes.

 

“So what if I do? Food makes life better.” Trunks’ face darkened into seriousness.

 

“Gods know we need a break every now and again,” Trunks snapped moodily.

 

With that, he burst into flight, blazing a blue ki trail toward Capsule Corp. Gohan sighed and followed. Bulma greeted them in the yard, followed by Chi-Chi. The little boy inside Gohan shrank at the look of mixed frustration and affection in his mother’s expression. But these years had changed Chi-Chi as well as Bulma and Gohan himself. Instead of beginning a scathing tirade about Gohan’s inconsiderate, fugitive behavior, she only embraced him, whispering tearfully, “I was so alone on the mountain . . . I couldn’t stand not knowing if you—if you--” she broke off when she felt his empty sleeve. A soft cry escaped her and she backed away, covering her mouth with her hand.

 

“Oh Gohan . . . oh my poor little boy! What—what happened?”

Trunks stepped forward, head bowed, fists balled at his sides.

 

“He lost his arm protecting me in a battle against the androids. I—I was injured also. He gave me his last Senzu bean. And I . . . I am sorry.”

Chi-Chi looked from Trunks to Gohan and he nodded slightly. It was the bald truth of it, though he could tell Trunks blamed himself for what happened, despite Gohan’s and Bulma’s protests to the contrary. Right now, Bulma looked on her son with worry and sympathy, irritation and pride. Chi-Chi’s face softened and she lifted Trunks’ chin.

 

“You are very brave, Trunks. And a good friend to my Gohan. What happened was an accident, an accident caused by those monsters who don’t even care who they hurt. Remember that. They don’t understand the power of sacrifice or honor or friendship.”

Trunks bowed, accepting the wisdom offered. Bulma laid a hand on her son’s shoulder.

 

“Come on. There is food inside.”

**

Life fell into a precarious balance in the coming weeks. Trunks’ fifteenth birthday arrived, and his mother had insisted on throwing him a party. They gathered in the largest bunker below ground. The entire base was lit with glowing paper lanterns and laced with streamers and splashes of color. Trunks felt both embarrassed and pleased by the trouble his mother had went through. Gohan and his mother came, as well as an ancient man, a friend of Gohan’s father, called Master Roshi. With him came a floating cat named Puar and a pig named Oolong. There was food and cake and an alcoholic drink they called DrainX.

 

“Because it kills brain cells and drains you of your common sense,” his mother said disdainfully, “Kami, it could be used to run an engine. I don’t want to see you remotely near that stuff, Trunks!”

 

The guests even gave small gifts. His mother had given him the capsule to the G.R. and his heart quickened at the thought of training in it. But it was Gohan’s gift that Trunks treasured as much as the sword his mother had made for him. Gohan gave him a shard of his father’s battle armor. Emblazoned upon it was the crest of Planet Vegeta in red, interlocked V’s joined over a flowing base. Trunks slipped the shard into his jacket pocket over his heart.

 

Conversation flowed over him as his mother and Gohan traded stories of the good old days, revisiting their adventures of youth and the epic arrival of Raditz and the other Saiyans. Trunks watched his mother’s face as they mentioned Vegeta. Trunks could see that the calm expression was deliberately forced, her laughter overbright. She was trying and trying hard not let her grief show. Perversely, Trunks felt a thrill of warmth shoot through him. Surely if his mother had loved his father so deeply, surely the Saiyan prince had felt something more than the lust that drew them together.

Sensing her discomfort, the others veered away from the topic of the Saiyans and turned instead to the well-worn stories of the dragonballs.

 

“Remember Bulma, when Oolong wished for your panties from Shenron?” Roshi asked, taking another liberal sip of DrainX.

 

Trunks choked on the gulp of water and coughed, Gohan pounding his back helpfully. Peering through watering eyes, he saw spots of color stain his mother’s cheeks. The pig sniggered and Trunks felt sick to his stomach. His mother caught his eye and she mouthed the words ‘I’m so sorry’ and Trunks laughed. Roshi laughed along with him before turning and inviting Chi-Chi to sit in his lap. She responded by slapping him across the face. Gohan’s breath tickled the shell of his ear as he whispered, “Master Roshi’s a shameless lecher when he drunk. Well, he’s a shameless lecher anytime, but more so than usual.”

 

The party wound down after that. Bulma insisted everyone stay in the complex for the night and one by one, each sought their beds. Gohan followed his mother after squeezing Trunks on the shoulder. Trunks rose and followed his mother to the lift, pausing only to send one of her serve-bots to clean up Roshi’s spilled DrainX. As the lift rocketed them towards the complex above ground, Bulma stumbled and caught herself on Trunks’ arm. Giggling like a girl half her age, she staggered back to lean against the glass wall of the lift.

 

Trunks snickered to himself, realizing that despite her warning, she had partaken in alcoholic refreshment. He had never seen his mother drunk before. She was a nice drunk, he decided, noting the color in her cheeks and the bleary look of peace in her blue eyes. She would regret her excess in the morning, Trunks knew. The blue eyes they shared focused on his face, delicate brow furrowed in thought.

 

“You look so much like your father, Trunks. The same shapes and angles. My coloring, though,” she trailed off, one finger tracing the line of his brow, down his cheek and stopping on his chin. Trunks frowned. His heart burned with the curiosity of a lifetime, yearning for knowledge of the man who had given him life.

 

“Why did you love him, Mom? All you ever say about him is how arrogant he was. How he didn’t tell you he loved you. How little time you had together. And all those stories of when he arrived here, how he beat up Gohan when you were wished back from Namek . . . If he was so evil, what made you love him? And if he was so bad, what does that make me? I’m his son. What do you see when you look at me?”

 

The dreaminess on her face sharpened at his words, and the finger wound around his chin, holding him still in a gentle grasp even as he wanted to jerk away. The words had burst from somewhere deep inside him, a pain he had locked deep in his heart.

 

“Oh Trunks. How could I--”

 

The lift slid to a jarring halt, the doors sliding open to reveal the hidden room connected to his mother’s lab in the Capsule Corp complex. Trunks brushed past her and into the lab, swinging his sword across his back. It wasn’t often he allowed his true feelings to be known, but when he did, they all pried loose from his iron will, lashing within him like the hot brand of ki. He turned, intent on flying to a place of solitude to reorder his thoughts.

 

“Trunks.”

 

The softly spoken word broke through his anger and confusion, spreading balm over his wounds. Tension ebbed from him and he turned to face her. Tears welled in her eyes and she wordlessly drew him into her arms. Trunks’ arms reflexively closed around her, his own eyes burning with the sting of tears.

 

“You’re my son too, Trunks,” she hissed into the lavender waves of his hair, “Despite all he did, all he suffered, your father was a good man. Not a nice man, like Yamcha or Goku, but a good one, and strong. I see that goodness and strength in you. You, Trunks, you are all your father could have been had Frieza not destroyed his home, his heritage, his life. Vegeta, he . . .”

 

Her voice broke around the name and Trunks wondered how many times she had said it aloud since he died. It was always ‘he’ or ‘your father’ or, in extremis of anger or frustration, ‘the Prince of all Idiots.’ Trunks leaned back in her embrace, watching her face in the hoary cast of moonlight as she spilled out all the words he needed to hear.

 

“You’re right, he never said it. He never held you as a baby. But there were moments, when his guard was down, that I saw him for who he really was. He was a Saiyan prince, yes, a ruthless mercenary of Frieza’s make, and my best friend’s sworn rival. But there were times when he’d look at me . . . and I knew that he cared for me. He could never say it, but it was still there. That love made you, Trunks. It was the best gift Vegeta could ever have given me. If for nothing else, I would love him for that.”

Trunks’ fingers found the shard of his father’s armor in his pocket and took solace in it.

He was the son the Saiyan Prince Vegeta the twenty-ninth.

That was no little thing.

**

The shattered remains of several of her father’s capsule ships lay strewn before her on her worktable. She frowned down at the casualties of wire and metal and plastic, hands fisted on her hips. The framework of the time capsule was simple, and construction was moving along nicely. But it would remain only a sleek capsule ship unless she could master the tachyon generator. Even the navigating system turned out easier than expected. Using components from Vegeta’s old scouter, she could fix onto someone’s ki and use its power as a focal point for the coordinates.

 

Bulma wished for the thousandth time that she had her father to bounce ideas off of. Her parents . . . yet another thing that she must set aright. Bulma swallowed the lump in her throat, pressing a balled fist against her heart. Her father had been outside, encapsulating the G.R. so he may repair it in the safety of the bunkers when the androids had attacked West City. A stray blast had caught her father and . . . and her mother had run out to help him. The poor, gentle woman had been killed in the same blast as her beloved flowers. Bulma had never had the heart to tend the shattered garden, remembering all the times she had helped her mother as she grew up. Had the androids even known that they had killed her parents?

It wasn’t likely.

The Z warriors had put up a fight, much to their amusement. Surely the evil twins remembered their faces.

And Vegeta . . .

It was rare that she let herself think upon him. Only in her dreams would he creep into her consciousness and blind her to anything else with the brand of his ghostly, yearned-for touch. But Trunks’ questions last night had etched his face and form, his words and actions, his burning glances and possessive touches into her brain, all as if he had left her a week ago, not fourteen years.

_Fourteen years . . ._

One smooth, white hand touched her cheek, tracing the slight crease at the corner of her mouth, the frown line between her brows. For a woman in her mid-thirties, living a life of terror and running, she still looked good. Bulma shook her head. The vain, spoiled, self-absorbed little princess she had been would have been appalled by her long, unkempt blue ponytail, the baggy, comfortable clothes she wore, the lines on her face and circles under her eyes. The end of the world would change anyone’s priorities.

Vegeta would probably still be sinfully beautiful with muscles a Greek god would envy, as always. Kami, if he were suddenly appear before her, would he want her?

_Of course, you foolish woman, the Prince of Saiyans has impeccable taste . . ._

 

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end and for a moment, she ceased breathing. Gods, she had heard Vegeta’s voice, rough and mocking, a hair below affectionately chiding. She could easily imagine him, dressed in his battlesuit and gold-tipped boots, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the doorjamb watching her. She could see too, the familiar smirk playing at his lips. Bulma swallowed hard and scanned the room.

Her lab was empty. She let out a breath, bracing her hands on the worktable before her.

 

“I must be going crazy. Great. Even dead, he manages to screw with me. Bulma girl, you really can pick ‘em.”

 

She shook her head and, still a little spooked, backed toward the door, content to leave the matter of the time capsule for later. Much later. When she had had a good night’s sleep and a CAT scan.

_Build the machine, Bulma. Build the machine, and it will not only be this time you save._

 

This time the voice was just over her right shoulder. A shudder ran through her and her skin broke out in a clammy sweat, muscles quivering with tension. She could almost feel the brush of his breath against her cheek. The words and Vegeta’s specter speaking her given name added gravity to the situation.

The time machine. Her reeling brain wrapped around that one fact and clung to it. Crazy or not, it was the key. The presence lingered even as she went back to work.

 

Bulma was reminded of the beginning stages of their tumultuous relationship, where the G.R. or one of the training bots would break, and, instead of leaving her to fix them, Vegeta would brood in the corner, watching her every move despite her repeated demands for privacy. By this time, Bulma was attracted to the bad boy prince. Her hands shook on the tools. Finally, fed up, she had slammed down the wrench she held, marched over to him, grabbed two fistfuls of his spiky Saiyan hair, and kissed him soundly on the mouth, just to rid herself of the impetus to do so. He offered no resistance or response, but he didn’t push her away either. The look on his face when she pulled away was priceless. Caught off-guard, all the emotions he so carefully held in check swirled like a storm in his eyes. Surprise, anger, and something different. Softer, but hotter, burning fierce and bright under the surface of his skin. In her ten-year relationship with Yamcha, she had learned the meaning of such a look.

 

He stared at her for a full minute, not speaking, not moving. She remembered squirming under his gaze, so dark and sharp and direct, as if he was taking the full measure of her. Then, with great deliberation, he uncrossed his arms and, with that eerie, alien speed of his, slammed her against the wall, caging her with his arms. He had given her that strange Saiyan bite-kiss, whispering with something between sadness and frustration, “Do you have any idea what you’ve unleashed here, woman? You may come to regret it.”

The words had deepened her infatuation to something dangerously close to love. In reply, she smiled at him, laying her hands flat on his chest.

 

“I’m a grown woman, Vegeta. I choose you. I want you.”

 

And the rest, as Trunks would say, was history. Vegeta had taken her there in her lab, bitten her neck like an animal. Bulma fingered the small scar at the base of her neck with a shudder. Despite herself, she had compared Vegeta to her boyfriend of ten years. It was comparing the sun to a candle’s light. He had been right. Foolish child that she’d been, she had no true knowledge of who he was under the cold, dangerous exterior, or what she had set in motion by taking him to her bed. From then on, if she gave even a glance, half a word of assent, he would attack her, drawing sensations and emotions from her that she hadn’t thought possible even in her wildest dreams with Yamcha. Explaining their relationship to their curious teenage son, she had sufficed to say, ‘it was a passion kind of thing.’

 

Passion and even love was a poor word to describe what she felt for Vegeta. He was an enigma. Bulma had a quick and curious mind and enigmas presented a delightful challenge. Outside their bedroom, he was still the arrogant, demanding prince. They argued and traded insults as always. But at night, he would hold her tight as he slept; clinging to her as he relived whatever hellish memories lurked behind those black eyes.

 

“What were you thinking, all those times we were together, when you looked at me like that?” she wondered aloud.

She groped for a smaller saw as she shaped a piece of the hull. To her surprise, she heard a reply.

_You’re clever for a human woman. I’m sure you know._

 

Bulma snorted. Typical Vegeta. A compliment wedged into an insult. The presence, the ghost or whatever it was, seemed to be fading. Mad or no, it was nice to feel his presence again. She wanted to call after him, but said instead, “Our son is a very good young man. Kind, polite, smart . . . and strong.” She strained her ears to hear any reply.

_A Saiyan prince with purple hair. Surely the gods have a sense of humor._

 

“Isn’t purple a royal color?” she shot back. A dry, reluctant chuckle.

_The boy is strong. He does his heritage proud._

 

Bulma broke out into a beaming smile. Even if it was a figment of her imagination, that was the highest compliment Vegeta could pay.

“I love you, Vegeta. I never said it either, but you knew it to be true.”

 

The lab was quiet save for the low purr of the temperature control system. Bulma sighed.

 

“Mom? Who are you talking to?”

 

Trunks’ lavender head poked around the corner, a quizzical frown marring his handsome features. Bulma started, setting down the tool she had clutched to her chest, trying to still her frantic pulse.

 

“Trunks, you scared me.”

 

She breathed a sigh, then frowned at her son’s appearance. His Capsule Corp shirt and pants were torn and dirty, his hair snarled, every visible inch of skin scuffed and bruised. She arched a brow. Trunks looked down at himself and had the grace to look sheepish. His blue eyes glowed in excitement as he said, “I was sparring with Gohan, Mom. I’m getting really strong, too. He had to turn Super Saiyan at the end to hold me off!”

Bulma smiled at her son’s exuberance.

 

“I can imagine that only one arm makes it harder to fight.”

 

Trunks grunted deep in his throat, crossing his arms over his chest in his father’s favored pose.

 

“Gohan could have lost both his arms and still he’d be the best fighter on the whole planet. One arm didn’t slow him down. He gave me a sound enough beating with his legs.”

 

Trunks grimaced and touched his ribs gingerly. Bulma glanced down and saw blood seep between his fingers. A soft cry of worry and indignation escaped her throat and she snapped, “All right, mister, into the regen tank with you!”

Trunks frowned, stepping towards her.

 

“But Mom--”

 

“Don’t ‘but Mom’ me! If you idiot Saiyan boys want to kill each other, that’s fine, but you’ll let me fix you up!”

 

Bulma slapped off Trunks’ conciliatory hand on her arm and dragged him into the other room. As she jabbed in the time setting and Trunks’ biofile and waited for the tank to fill, she regained some measure of calm.

 

“I take it Gohan is as roughed up as you?”

Trunks, who was gingerly peeling off his destroyed shirt, paused and smirked up at his mother.

 

“Worse. I think I broke his hand.”

 

Bulma forced herself to keep a stern visage. Trunks in a playful mood was a rarity she treasured too much to spoil with scolding words. Trunks sat on the floor and tugged off his worn sneakers, wincing as the movement tugged at his injured ribs.

 

“Don’t worry, Mom. Chi-Chi had a Senzu bean left over and Gohan’s already down in the bunker gorging himself on her dumplings.” Bulma laughed.

 

“That sounds like Gohan. After you’re out of the tank, we’ll go down and join them.” She kissed Trunks’ hair, absorbing the smell of clean sweat, blood, and the musky scent unique to Goku and Vegeta. The tank beeped and Trunks obediently climbed the ladder. He paused and sat on the lip of the tank, studying her with a frown tugging at his handsome features.

 

“You never answered my question, Mom. Who were you talking to when I came in? I thought I heard Father’s name.”

 Bulma swallowed hard. How was she to explain her supernatural encounter without sounding certifiably crazy?

 

“I was talking to Vegeta. I like to imagine him here, think of what he would say. I know it sounds crazy . . .”

 

It was as close to the truth as she could get. If she told her son that she actually heard her dead husband’s voice, he would probably force some idiot medication down her throat.

Trunks swung his long legs into the tank’s warm fluid, moving his foot in an idle circle. Green-blue light refracted up from within the tank, bathing him in an unearthly glow. Sleek muscle lay taut against his strong bones and Bulma glimpsed the tail scar at the base of spine. It struck her with a jolt, as it did at odd moments, that her son wasn’t fully human. When he spoke, his voice was nearly lost over the hum of the tank.

  

“I don’t think it’s crazy. I do it sometimes too. I keep wondering what he would say if he saw me. If he’d be . . . if he’d be proud of me.”

 

Bulma wished he would climb down so she could hold him close. The motherly instinct to cling and smother was overwhelming at times, especially in this dark and uncertain future. The torture of an unknown father was a burden she had never wanted him to bear. Despair wrapped its silken tendrils around her. She felt like such a failure as a mother. Despite her wealth, despite her friends’ strength, despite her fertile mind, she could not give her son the life she had dreamed for him while he grew in her belly.

 

“I have it on good authority that he is very proud of you, Trunks,” she said gently, choked with emotion.

At last, he did look at her, eyes brimming with tangled, human emotions.

 

“Whose authority, Mom?” his voice quavered like the young boy he was.

 

“Mine,” she replied, “Vegeta would be very proud of you, Trunks. If not for your intelligence, your courage, your strength, then for your determination and pride. Those were traits Vegeta prided in himself.”

 

A beatific smile broke out on his face and said, “Thanks, Mom. I’ll see you in ten.” he slipped into the tank’s soothing waters and fitted the breathing apparatus over his mouth and nose. Flashing her a thumbs up sign, he closed his eyes slipped into the tank’s gentle embrace.


	4. Transformed

It had been too good to last.

 

 After weeks of a kind of uneasy peace, the androids had roused from their torpor to kill and maim as was their wont. He and Gohan had been training outdoors under the high summer sun, having broken the G.R. in their last bout. The mild burn in his muscles was pleasant, his whole body humming with energy and excitement at the challenge and the primal joy of fighting one as strong—stronger—than he.

 

Strands of lavender hair flew in his eyes and he shook his head irritably. He vowed for the thousandth time that he would not let his mother cut his hair. He would grow it long enough to tie back, away from his face. A warrior couldn’t be worried about his hair in battle. As Trunks leapt off a plateau and threw a spray of blue ki orbs after the orange blur of Gohan’s back, he smirked. For an instant, he imagined himself with the gravity-defying sweep of his father’s hair.

Such idle musings were cut off as he felt a prickle of cold energy far off.

 

Both he and Gohan had halted in mid-air, frozen in place. The fragile bubble of peace that had settled over Trunks in the past weeks popped, leaving him with the sour taste of fear in his mouth and an icy chill creeping down his spine. Though he couldn’t sense the androids themselves, being without life energy of their own, he had no trouble sensing the ki they manipulated like a child’s plaything. Gohan floated down to a rocky plateau and Trunks followed, watching grimly as domes of golden energy flickered like fireflies across the landscape of a nearby town. The sun was setting, and the sky was painted in shades of red, the clouds weeping golden tears in the distance.

 _If only they rusted,_ Trunks thought, detached from the sounds of destruction and sorrow below him.

 

_If only the rain would rust them into place. Then I could hack them to pieces._

 

His knuckles crept up and whitened on the hilt of his sword behind his right shoulder. The smooth black rubber of the hilt was comforting and solid.

 

He was not defenseless.

 

He was not weak.

 

He was Trunks, son of the genius Bulma Briefs and Vegeta the twenty-ninth, Prince of all Saiyans. His lineage was a comfort as well as a heavy burden, as Gohan’s was to him. Trunks had heard stories all his life of Goku, the hero of Earth and the Saiyan who hated killing.

 

“Damn them,” Gohan muttered fiercely, his fist balled tight, “Damn them both!”

 

With that, Gohan burst into Super Saiyan and Trunks was bathed in the bright, flashing heat of his ki. Trunks stared at his friend and mentor with a mixture of awe and jealousy. The mop of black bangs hanging on Gohan’s forehead leapt up with his ki, glowing blond. The gentle black eyes blazed into a murderous teal, scorching in their fury. With his empty sleeve and the scar slashing across his eye, Gohan had the look of a warrior who had fought immortal foes for a decade. Eyes fixed on the erratic dots of brilliant destruction below, he rasped, “Stay here, Trunks.”  Trunks whirled on his master, indignant.

 

“No way, Gohan! I’m much stronger this time. Let me help you!”

 

Gohan’s serious battle visage softened in affection and he laid a brotherly hand on Trunks’ shoulder. With one arm, there was no way Gohan could survive a battle with the androids . . . Trunks shoved away the thought.

 

“You are strong, Trunks. Much stronger than I was when I transformed. I promised your . . . your mother I would protect you.”

 

Trunks felt anger and confused sorrow lash in equal parts within him. A soft blue glow of ki surrounded him.

 

“I am not a weakling child that I need your protection, Gohan! Let me fight!”

 

The broad, strong fingers tightened on his shoulder and the green eyes of a Super Saiyan bore into Trunks.

 

“Trunks . . . I love you as my own brother. And it has been my honor to train you, my prince. Remember, great power, borne of great loss.”

 

Trunks’ heart seized at the finality of his words. Gohan would go to his death.

He had to stop him, he had to—

Black stars danced before his eyes as pain exploded in his brain and warm darkness pulled him into an embrace.

**

 

Gohan lowered Trunks to the ground by a handful of his shirt.

 

“Sleep now, brother. You will need your strength,” he whispered, kneeling to pat Trunks’ head gently.

A knot rose in his throat, thinking of all the painful emotions that had assailed him at Vegeta’s death: the fear, the pain, the terrible loneliness . . .

He regretted forcing Trunks to bear the burden, but it was necessary.  

 

 _I fulfill my vow, Vegeta. I have kept him safe as long as I draw breath._ Gohan took a deep breath and looked up at the dying rays of sunlight.

 

“I’m sorry, Mom. I wish . . . I wish none of this had ever happened.”

 

Gohan stoked his ki to the highest he could and blazed a golden trail toward the town and the evil that awaited him, the sun’s warmth a dying memory on his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was just like before. It was just as it was all those years ago when one by one, he watched those he loved die. The same helplessness, the same futile rage. But instead of a weeping twelve year old boy, a bloodied, one-armed Super Saiyan lay on the ground, waiting for death. Blood hung thick in his mouth, as bitter as defeat. They both stood over him, palms glowing with orbs of gold ki. Eyes empty, faces blank save for the evil smirks quirking their mouths.

They took pleasure in destruction and pain.

 

Damned metal demons.

 

He lay still, no longer struggling, like a cornered predator who realizes resistance is futile. Gohan looked up at the hands that would kill him, his power slipping away like the ruby tears his wounds wept. Some unheard signal passed between them, and as one, they fired. Pain exploded hot and bright through his arms, his legs, his torso. No quick and honorable death for him, no, the bastards would take their time at it, wire thin bolts of ki burning every inch of flesh. A howl bubbled in his throat. Of indignance, of defiance and hate and sorrow.

Gohan cried out, pouring every last ounce of energy from the broken sieve within his soul. Electricity crackled. Ki burned the air acrid with its potency.

The light and the pain were unbearable. He longed for the cool darkness of death’s embrace.

A familiar hand touched his brow, easing the fever.

_Daddy . . ._

And Gohan, son of Goku was no more.

**

Trunks snapped awake.

 

“Gohan?” he whispered, tense with dread.

 

His head throbbed with pain and he staggered to his feet. Gouts of black smoke rose over the remnants of yet another city. Thunder rumbled nearby and the air was pungent with the scent of ki. He reached his senses out in all directions, his mind unfurling in cool fingers as he searched for the familiar signature.

Nothing.

 

“Oh no,” he moaned, clutching his sword tight. The grief that threatened to choke him transmuted into rage.

 

“Damn it, Gohan! Why did you go alone?!” he knew the answer deep in his heart even as he rained oaths upon his master’s head. Gohan would push him over the edge. Across the precipice and he would a Super Saiyan.

_Alone . . ._

Kami, he didn’t want to be alone!

 

The rain came as Trunks flew towards the town, torn between dread and hope. Maybe, just maybe he was alive, only too weakened for his power level to sing his presence. The rain sluiced over him, cooling his skin and plastering his clothes and hair to his body. He wove to and fro, sharp blue eyes alert for the slightest movement or the flash of orange and blue. At last, he spotted him, facedown and still in a puddle-ridden crater.

 

“Gohan!” he burst out, forcing his consciousness toward the inert form. No response. Not even a twitch of mental energy. Trunks landed several yards away, frozen at the sight of him. The truth was harsh and jagged, tearing into his mind and soul.

 

Dead.

 

 

 

Alone.

 

Lost to him as his father was.

 

“Gohan?” he whispered, his voice quavering with the weight of his grief.

 

Snatches of sensation pierced the fog surrounding Trunks. Mounds of concrete and the shattered remnants of cars lay strewn about, the rain dancing along their gnarled shapes. Heat rose in clinging, shimmering waves as the sun warmed concrete cooled. A broken street light blinked nearby, washing the world in red. The weight of his sword on his back was a cold, inanimate comfort.

In the center of it all lay Gohan.

Trunks walked towards him like a zombie, mind vacant, legs moving forward of their own volition. Warm moisture slid down his cheeks, unheeded and unnoticed, his tears lost in the thousands falling from the heavens.

Did the Earth too, mourn the loss of Gohan?

 

“Why did you leave me?” Trunks choked, staggering toward him.

 

At last, he was standing over his master’s body and swallowed hard at the damage wrought to his flesh, the puddles near him tinged with blood. The pulsing red light of the street light washed over him like the beat of a heart.

 

“Oh God, no. No . . . what did they do to you? You were . . . you everything to me.”

 

His whole being longed to scream and rail and beat his chest at the unfairness of it all, but now it was only grief that moved him. Trunks knelt, gently rolling Gohan over and a small sound escaped him at the debris embedded into his face and neck, his eyes rolled back. At the touch of his cold, slack skin, Trunks knew without a doubt that his master was dead. A keening cry torn from his throat and he cradled his master’s head to his chest.

_“GOHAN!”_

Their voices, all the warriors that lay slain, Gohan’s voice, his father’s . . . all cried out to him for vengeance.

Trunks tore at his head, trying to drown out their ghostly pleas with his own screaming. His fists clenched and his blood joined his tears, seeping between his fingers. His whole body convulsed. Then the blazing pain wreaking havoc inside him coalesced into shining, beautiful anger, burning away the pain in a firestorm of heat and light.

 

With an audible pop, Trunks was thrown across the threshold and golden fire scorched brilliant trails over his body, sweeping his hair up into riotous blond spikes and searing his eyes into a dazzling green. His ascension did not stop the hurting and Trunks beat his fists against the ground, shattering all the remaining glass and concrete within in a mile. The winking street light went out.

Trunks wept with all the pain of a broken heart.

**

 

Bulma threw the soldering iron across the table, primally pleased when it broke. Despite her fevered efforts to lose herself in her work, she could not exorcise a mother’s worry, and it was a terrible waste of wiring trying to do so. Trunks and Gohan had been gone all day. The radio had said the androids had come out of their slumber and attacked a nearby town.

_Kami, if I lose Trunks . . ._

 

She shook herself, finding solace in the machine taking shape in her lab. It was finished, and operational. All she needed to do was test it. Even if Trunks had died, she could go back even a handful of hours and warn him.

Bulma rose and paced the length of her lab, toying with the end of her long ponytail. A gnawing dread ate at her thoughts like the rats that plagued the bunkers below ground. What if it didn’t work? All her genius would come to naught if she was landed in a primitive time, or if she was somehow stranded. And how was she sure that the time stream wouldn’t effect her or the ship? Would going into the past make her younger?  

It was a tricky business, flirting with disaster, challenging time and fate itself.

 

But if it did work, when should she go back? Days before the battle, warning the Z warriors of the androids? Should she stop Piccolo from fighting so the others could be wished back? Should she go back to the day years ago when Goku had let Dr. Gero go free?

Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of her beloved friend. He had died a natural death, as natural as a horrible disease can get. The dragonballs were useless.

A plan formed in her mind.

She could go back to when he returned from Namek, give him the antidote, and warn him of the horrible future ahead. Bulma remained convinced that, with her warning, they would survive, and defeat them.

Then none of this would ever have happened.

That was the disconcerting aspect of it, though. If none of this ever happened, would she disappear? Would this version of herself die?

 

“It would be worth it. Some futures aren’t worth living in,” she said to herself.

 

She paused her frantic pace at a strange thought. What would she do, if she went back in time and saw herself? Would their knowledge of her lead to some horrible turn, another bleak future that she had overlooked?

What would she do, if she saw Vegeta or Goku again? Could she act indifferent to them, forgetting the love that had tortured her for almost two decades, even if it would save their lives?

 

There was so much she didn’t know.

But Trunks . . . his face and form would be unfamiliar to the young Bulma, Goku and Vegeta. She’d have a hell of a time trying to convince him to go, his damned Saiyan pride demanded that he kill the androids with his own hands. Any other form of vengeance would be unsatisfying, especially one where someone else would do the killing.

 

Bulma sighed and locked up her lab, wandering through the abandoned halls of the once-thriving complex. Rain streaked the glass, twisting in weeping rivulets at the lash of wind. Thunder rumbled in the distance and Bulma shivered. Normally, the rain soothed her, wrapping her in contentment when all she loved was safe and warm and comfortable inside. The androids would often lay low when it rained. It must pique their vanity to appear to the public wet and bedraggled. The added layer of uneasy calm made rainy evenings all the more enjoyable.

But tonight was different.

Chi-Chi and the others in the gang had gone to Kame House for some sunshine and peace. The refugees were content in the bunkers below, leaving Bulma alone with her thoughts aboveground. She hated the dread wrapping its warped threads around her heart, reminiscent of the day Vegeta had died. Was it possible for a person to simply use up their quota of grief? If Trunks or Gohan died, could she even summon the tears to weep for them?

 

Growling in frustration, Bulma sought something to distract herself. As with anytime she zeroed in on a project, latent hunger welled in her stomach. She moved with purpose now, to the kitchens. Trunks and Gohan would be hungry when they returned. The thought comforted her and she went through the motions of fixing enough food to feed two hungry Saiyans. The water in her industrial-sized stew pot had just come to a boil when there was a loud crash sounded at the back door to the complex. Her heart hammering, Bulma abandoned the stew and flew around the corner.

 

“Trunks?”

 

Silhouetted in the doorway, stood her son. The rain roared steadily behind him, the wind whipping the drops into undulating sheets.

He was alone.

And glowing gold.

Bulma gasped. She had seen Gohan as a Super Saiyan, but it did little to prepare her for her baby boy, hair upswept in golden spikes and eyes a searing teal. Even Bulma, who had no ki to speak of, could feel the power radiating off of him. His eyes . . . her heart broke at the soul-shattering anguish in them. And she knew in that instant Gohan was dead. Moisture blurred Trunks’ face and Bulma barely felt the tears slipping down her cheeks. Did he even notice what had happened?

 

He staggered into the room mindlessly, gusts of cool, rain-fresh air blowing in behind him. His knees gave out and he sat, staring blankly at his hands. Quietly, Bulma closed the door and hovered over him. What could she say?

 

“T—Trunks? Trunks, honey, are you all right?”

 

Her hand touched his round shoulder. The sleek muscle shivered under her hand and in the next instant, Bulma was thrown back against the wall by a searing blast of gold aura. Her head slammed against the unforgiving concrete and pain drew black stars behind her eyes. With inhuman speed, Trunks whirled around and stood, fists clenched and legs splayed.

 

“Of course I’m not all right! Gohan is dead! Those monsters killed him like they’ve killed everyone else! I’ll rip them apart with my bare hands. They will never make me afraid again!”

 

Bulma sat dazed and dreamy as Trunks ranted. Something warm and wet was trickling down the back of her neck. Frowning, she reached back and her quivering fingers came away bloodied. As if waiting for her to acknowledge her injury, pain wrapped itself around her brain, tingeing the edges of her vision crimson. Scalp wounds bled profusely, she knew, even if the damage was slight. It was the fogged senses, nausea, and trembling she worried about. Moderate to severe concussion.

 

“Mom?” his voice quavered like a young boy’s.

 

Bulma sought to reassure him. The words stuck in her throat, resting heavy on her tongue. The last thing she saw was her son’s glowing face, Vegeta etched into every line, twisted in sorrow and fear before darkness reached out and took her.

**

His hands shook. With a feral growl, he clenched his fists to still them, his fingernails biting to the skin of his palm until they were slick with blood.

It was too much.

Gohan dying, his ascension, and now . . .

Now he had hurt his mother with his new power.

 

Tears slid from his swollen eyes and he bit back a cry. Kami, if she died, he knew he would go mad. His mother was his anchor, his guide and comfort in a world gone mad. With great effort, he stretched his consciousness around the golden wellspring of power seeping through his pores. It was like wrestling with the sun. Beads of sweat popped on his forehead and temples. He dragged in a breath through his teeth and exhaled, feeling the power ebb from his grasp. To be sure, his hand crept up and touched his hair. Soft and slack, its natural lavender. Weariness gnawed at his bones and hunger clawed at his stomach. Trunks ignored both, instead taking in his mother’s form.  

A keening sound halfway between a sob and a whimper escaped his throat and he carefully lifted his mother’s limp form in his arms. She was bleeding from a head wound, and she had passed out, but Trunks was relieved to find her pulse swift and strong.

She was so thin . . .

For the first time in a long time, Trunks noticed the faint marks of fatigue under her eyes, how her clothes hung off her body. Was he such a selfish fool that he hadn’t noticed his mother’s suffering?

 

The regen tank hummed, casting a greenish blue bubble of light across the darkened room. Trunks blessed his mother’s foresight. She had filled the tank in preparation for their return. His fingers flew over the keys as he entered in the code for his mother’s biofile. He levitated over the hatch and dropped his mother inside, sliding the breathing apparatus over her mouth and nose gently. The tank was set for fifteen minutes. Trunks sank boneless to the floor at the base of the tank, his cheek pressed against the cool glass.

 

He must have fallen asleep, for he awoke to the smell of something burning. He shot to his feet, disoriented. His mother still floated peacefully in the tank’s restorative embrace and Trunks relaxed minutely. He rushed to the kitchen to find the water burned down on the stove, the spices charring an acrid crust on the bottom of the pot. She had been making him dinner. Trunks fished the pot off the heat and turned off the stove, awash anew with guilt and sorrow.

 

“Oh Mom . . .”

His lower lip trembled and a fresh wave of tears stung the backs of his eyes. Trunks growled, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. Some Saiyan Prince he was, crying like a baby in the kitchen. He had been stupid. Ever since he was a very young child, he knew that he was stronger than almost everyone around him, especially his mother. He took great pains to be gentle, terrified by the thought of hurting her by accident. And tonight, when he had reached the highest plateau of power possible, he had lost his hard-won control in a fit of anger and pain. He swore he would never make such a mistake again.

 

Trunks set about fixing a meal for himself and his mother, grateful for something to focus on. He was of half a mind to zip down to the bunkers and find some DrainX. An alcoholic oblivion sounded damned good after the night he’d had. Trunks’ keen hearing caught the soft beep of the tank. He slowed his hands on the bowl of rice and vegetables he was mixing. Should he go to her? No, she would find him soon enough. And he didn’t want to scare her.

 

He had just set the table and poured the tea when his mother strode into the room, infused with new energy after the slightly over-long stint in the tank. With the severity of her injury, it would normally have taken about ten minutes at the most to heal her, but Trunks had wanted her to feel good, not only adequately healed. She had changed into dry clothes, jeans and a loose Capsule Corp. shirt. Her hair tumbled in loose blue waves around her shoulders and Trunks was struck by her beauty. He felt emotion well up in him, a knot obstructing his throat. He dropped his eyes to the chipped porcelain plate at his normal place. Faint blue designs arched and whirled around the rim and Trunks followed their eddying pattern, intensely aware of his mother’s intent perusal. What could he expect? A sharp-tongued rant on responsibility? Tears?

 

“Mom, I—I’m so sorry . . . I don’t know what came over me. I was—am—so torn up about G—Goh—han,” he stuttered out the name, despair lancing his heart in tiny, jagged needles, “I wasn’t used to the form yet, but it will never happen again, I swear--”

Her soft arms enfolded him and all the tension and emotion ebbed from him. With a sigh, he returned the embrace, crushing her to his chest. Kami, he loved her. She was all he had left in the world. She made a soft sound and Trunks loosened his hold.

 

“It’s all right, Trunks,” she whispered into his hair, her voice as soft and soothing as a lullaby, “I know you didn’t mean it. You did it, hun! You’re a Super Saiyan! I’m so proud of you. I know Gohan would be too.”

A prolonged gurgle emanating from Trunks’ stomach saved him from embarrassing himself with blubbering. They both laughed and dropped the clinging embrace. Bulma turned her eyes to the spread on the table, hands fisted on her hips.

 

“Well, I’d attest this to your upbringing. I’m sure you’re the only Saiyan in the entire Universe who can cook as well as eat!”

Trunks reddened as he took his seat, still grinning. A small part of his brain registered the absurdity of it. How could he be smiling when Gohan was dead? How could he eat while the androids still lived? His mother, as always, caught the gist of his thoughts and halted their fevered pace by laying her hand over his. He met her gaze and saw the blue eyes he had inherited from her were shining with tears. Her voice was as steady as her hand was warm.

 

“Believe me, Trunks, I know what it means to feel like your heart’s been ripped out and stomped on. After Vegeta died, I didn’t think I’d ever stop crying. But you know what?”

 

“What?”

 

“You crawled right into my lap and hung upside down from my arm by your tail. Momma took a picture of it. I couldn’t stop laughing.”

 

Trunks snorted at the mental image and the strangeness of life. Earth-shattering grief coupled with the brightest of joys. Such was the terrain of the human—and Saiyan, he reminded himself—heart. As they ate, they shared stories of Gohan, laughing as dawn broke and sent golden light singing over the pair.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to remind the people alreeady reading this, that *I* didn't write it.


	5. Lost

The next weeks passed in a flurry of fevered activity, bitter frustration and livid, futile hatred for Bulma. Everyday, without fail, Trunks would strap on his sword and hurl himself into training in hopes of turning Super Saiyan again. And everyday he would limp home injured and frustrated at his inability to recapture the power. It didn’t matter how many screamed imprecations she heaped on his head, or alternately the tortured tears she shed at seeing him so beaten and defeated. His handsome face was implacable, his blue eyes burning with the hatred of a lifetime. He would not rest until the androids lay in pieces, even if he killed himself achieving it. In a sick imitation of his father, the need to become a Super Saiyan to defeat the androids became an obsession bordering on madness. And despite herself, Bulma admired the fierce determination as she had in Vegeta.

 

Likewise, when she wasn’t preparing and maintaining either the G.R. or the regen tank for her battle-minded son, she threw herself into the perfection of the time machine. She activated the automated navigational system, setting the time for at first small increments of time, only minutes at short distances. The first successful test sent her into hysterical fits of delighted laughter.

 

It worked!

 

She had done it!

 

But still, the hard-earned caution that had hovered over her shoulder in these long, difficult years tempered her enthusiasm. She dared not pilot it herself, not yet anyway. For now, it was reconnaissance, testing the limits of what was previously thought of as lunacy. Each test returned with stunning results. The ship showed no signs of wear or aging, and the tachyon generator was working beautifully.

 

For now, she used her own ki signature as the focal point of the coordinates. In the future, for longer spans of time, she would have to use Trunks’. A fountain of energy like his would be a beacon across time and space. He was her lighthouse as she navigated treacherous and uncertain waters.

Bulma itched to pilot it, eager to alter the course of this future. Bulma bit her lip and gave in to the small indulgence. She scaled the ladder eagerly, sitting in the cockpit. She stroked the smooth metal of the wheel, her white work gloves not leaving so much a fingerprint behind.  If she left, she could just adjust the coordinates to take her back at the exact same instant. Trunks wouldn’t even know she had gone . . .

The temptation was nearly too great.

Again, caution whispered to her and she climbed out. If and when she did go, she would leave no loose ends.

 

Hours later, she emerged from her lab to find Trunks, seated on the sagging couch, staring meditatively at his sword sheathed across his lap. A needle of worry thrust into her heart and her fingers fluttered over the pulse beat at her throat. To see him so still, so tranquil, was unnerving after weeks of nonstop movement and effort. Quickly, she took in minute details. His hair was damp, pale tendrils clinging to his temples and neck. His clothes were clean and face unmarred. The tension ebbed with a surge of relief. Not injured or broken in spirit, only another trip to the regen tank. Bulma cursed under her breath. The way Saiyans healed, Trunks must be twice as strong as he was when he transformed. But, judging by the tension in his shoulders and whitened knuckles around the sword sheath, training had not gone well. He kept his eyes glued to the tattered sneakers he wore. His head turned and the sun gilded his profile in red and gold.

 

“I have to fight them, Mom.” Bulma only nodded. She knew this time would come. Whether it was Goku or Vegeta or Gohan, when they hit a wall in training, they sought a stimulus to lift them from their torpor. Trunks frowned, twisting in his seat to see her better.

 

“What, no lectures this time?”

The sarcasm of his words stung. Bulma felt anger build up, coating her tongue with poison. She wanted to shoot back something equally scathing, but refrained. It seemed the only conversations she had with her son of late were arguments.

 

“No. No arguments. Go and avenge your master if you want to. Here.”

She tossed him a capsule. He caught it deftly, eyeing her with a puzzled frown.

 

“You know the code to the regen tank. Don’t wake me.”

She turned her back on her son, praying to the gods she had abandoned so many years ago to protect her son.

_You’d better come back alive, kid. That’s all I can say._  

**

Grumbling to himself about the unpredictability of women and his mother especially, Trunks depressed the cap to the capsule, tossing it to the floor with more force than was necessary. As the puff of orange smoke dissipated, Trunks frowned at the set of clothes folded at the center of a threadbare rug. Yellow boots stood beside neatly folded black pants and muscle shirt. His defiant anger evaporated and Trunks closed his eyes, regretting the petulant sarcasm of his words. Gingerly, he picked up the raiment, the fabric soft and sturdy between his fingers. Vaguely he remembered his mother mentioning a heat-resistant cloth she was working on for Gohan some time back. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged the guilty voice that deplored his monopoly on her genius. The G.R., the training bots, the regen tank, more recently, his sword, and now this. When he was younger, he had loved watching his mother work, handing her tools, asking her how things worked. All that had changed as soon as Gohan had become an integral part of his life. He made a mental note to show more interest in the gadgetry and algorithms that his mother loved so much, if only for her benefit.

 

Trunks glanced out the window. The sun slipped sleepily over the horizon in a blaze of fiery colors, serenely oblivious of the turmoil on Earth. Android activity had been increasingly erratic since Gohan’s death. While before, they had restricted their romps to the bright, sunny days meant to signify a happy, productive day, now they attacked at random. Night, day, rain, shine, within weeks or hours of their last attack, it no longer mattered. It was almost as if they knew that the world had no more to offer in the way of entertainment. Trunks’ jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists as familiar fury welled within him.

The sole survivor—the last prince—of a warrior race, frozen in fear at the thought of those two tin cans!

Super Saiyan or no Super Saiyan, he would destroy those two demons!

 

“I’ll avenge you Gohan. I’ll avenge you or die trying,” he swore softly. The last attack had been unnervingly close, not even fifty miles away. He deliberated for a moment. Training in the G.R. would not make him transform any more than it had Vegeta. He was many times stronger, his stamina and concentration had improved by leaps and bounds. Now, his sword felt like nothing more than an oiled feather in his hand. A smirk flitted across his lips. Concentration was not only an asset, but a necessity. If you let up for even a second at four hundred times Earth’s gravity, you were a pancake.

 

Trunks returned his gaze to the clothing he held. He concentrated a small bead of gold ki onto his fingertip and dragged it along the cloth. It didn’t even smoke. Trunks grinned. Another test, then. He grasped the shirt between his hands and ripped it. Or tried to rip it. Grinning like a kid given a shiny red wagon, he eagerly donned the clothes his mother had spent hours crafting. The shirt fit taut against his chest, but the pants were baggy, similar to Gohan’s. Trunks tucked the hem into his yellow boots and strapped his sword across his back.

 

He raised his ki slightly, preparing to fly, but then powered down. He bent and fished through his pocket of his discarded pants. The shard of his father’s armor wrapped in a tattered piece of Gohan’s orange gi, the white insignia bearing the sign of Kame House bright in the dusky shadows. Trunks studied them both in the weak light, his demi-Saiyan eyes unstrained. These totems of his heritage and training made them tangible to him still. Trunks fisted his hand around the small bundle, closing his eyes and visualizing them both. Gohan’s face was dear and familiar, the scar, the mop of black bangs, the quirky smile. Vegeta’s face was more elusive. He imagined a face like his own, a short, compactly-muscled body, the father he had never known.

Both gone.

Both dead by the androids’ cold hands.

It was all the motivation he needed.

 

Trunks flung himself into the growing night, blood humming with anticipation. The fear he locked into a small space in the back of his mind. He channeled the anger and sorrow and the whispers of madness that crooned a sweet web of lies around his soul. Finding them was easier than he anticipated. All he had to do was follow the destroyed buildings and fresh corpses. He found 17 leaning casually against a sleek aircar, its grille splashed with blood, picking dirt from beneath immaculate fingernails. Trunks opened his senses, alert for any sound, the tiniest flash of movement. 18 couldn’t be far away from her twin, and he couldn’t sense her ki.

 

“Hey rust-bucket! Remember me?” Trunks shouted, flying at him with his bare fists. 17 turned in time to catch Trunks’ fist with his cheek. Primal pleasure raced through his veins, elated that he had landed a hit. Body burning with blue ki, he followed the initial punch with two more to the body, then a scissor kick to the side of the head. Without the ki shield, hitting that marble and metal body would have broken even his dense demi-Saiyan bones. Trunks stood crouched, body afire with joy.

 

The red handkerchief tied around 17’s neck had been knocked askew, and the android stood, dirtied but completely unharmed. His slanted blue eyes narrowed at Trunks and he felt a betraying tremor in his left hand. He had put all he had in that combination. And not even a scratch. His vapid voice altered, holding the slightest hint of irritation through the ennui.

“You’re the brat that 18 fought at the park, am I right? She tenderized you like a piece of meat. And you don’t have your blonde friend to save you now.”

The mention of Gohan stung. Trunks grit his teeth and powered up. Wind and searing heat lashed around him, kicking up dirt and broken glass.

 

“We’ll see about that!” he growled. Then 17 disappeared. Without even a blur of motion, Trunks was left staring dumbly around him. He scanned the surrounding buildings, burned out and black, their shadows seeming to reach out to smother Trunks’ light.

 

“Come on out, you metal son of a . . .” Trunks whispered.

 

“Now, now. Can’t you play nice?” the cold voice was in his ear.

 

A gasp tore from Trunks’ lips. His hand closed over his sword’s hilt. He didn’t even have time to draw it as 17 elbowed him in the kidney, sending him careening through the air. He flew clear through two cement walls before he recovered. His reflexes were fast after training in the G.R., but not nearly fast enough. He cracked open one blue eye to find both 17 and 18 floating in the hole he had created. Weak starlight filtered through, catching dust motes in their beams. Cold sweat broke over his body.

 

“Aw 17, look at what you’ve done. You’ve frightened our guest.” 18 mocked, perfect lips turned into a smirk. Trunks snapped out of it, flying at them with maddened ferocity. 18 caught his flying fist and 17 blocked his kick with one slender arm. Trunks hurled two balls of ki at their faces and somersaulted out into the open street. They walked, arms akimbo, as nonchalant as a couple taking a walk in the park. Hate wrapped its hot fingers around Trunks’ heart. If for nothing else, he hated how they batted away his earnest attacks as if they were mosquitoes.

 

“We’d thought that we’d scared you off for good. I’m glad you came out to play. 17 was ready to blow this planet to hell.” 18 said, staring at him with her dead, pale blue eyes.

 

“You killed my master and I’m here to make you pay, you monsters!” Trunks bellowed.

 

He drew his sword and charged again. 17 caught his sword with ease, halting his charge. Trunks stared in horror as he snapped it in half with a twitch of his arm. Staring dumbly at the jagged piece only a few inches long from the hilt, Trunks didn’t see the blows coming. 17 and 18 blasted him as one, piercing him through his bare shoulder and right arm. Pain screamed through him and he screamed with it. 18 cut off the sound with a sharp blow to his midsection. 17 shot quick, thin beams across his legs, intending to knock him to the ground. The cloth absorbed the heat and shock of it with ease. Trunks nearly smiled at the look of dumb surprise on his face.

 

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, 18 kicked him to his knees. Trunks watched his blood paint erratic patterns in the dirt, one arm throbbing electric pulses of pain. He had failed. If they killed him now, his mother would be all alone . . .

18’s beautiful face was caught somewhere between disgust and disappointment.

 

“It took less to break him than the other one. He lost his arm without so much as a peep.”

 

“Did you have a thing for that guy or what? He screamed like a stuck pig when we killed him.” 17 muttered, folding his arms over his chest. Trunks moaned at the mention of Gohan as he drowned in pain and shame. Why was he so afraid? _Oh_ _Gohan, I wish I was as brave as you . . ._

17’s empty eyes slid over Trunks. He held up the broken sword with a smirk.

 

“This one has style. Let’s keep him.”

 

“All right.” The hand in his hair dropped. Trunks watched them begin to fly away. The fear disappeared.

He didn’t care anymore.

All the expectations melted away.

The one truth he clung to was that he could not let them leave him here in shame. He would not survive it. And the power bubbled up at his fingertips, flooding his body with wild, angry light. He exploded into Super Saiyan without conscious effort. 17 and 18 turned back and watched with dispassionate eyes.

 

“Look, he’s a blond too. Kinda sexy.” 18 purred, flicking her hair over her shoulder flirtatiously.

 

“Ugh. You’re hopeless.” 17 snarled, “Have fun.” A wave of a pale hand invited Trunks’ attack.

 

17 made no move to engage as Trunks flew at 18, blood pouring from his wounds. They traded furious flurries of kicks and punches, neither gaining ground. The power was intoxicating. Trunks forgot himself, forgot anything but the golden energy burning through his skin, giving him speed and strength. It was his now. He was a Super Saiyan. Trunks found himself smiling. Their fists met with rumbling echoes, two titans waging war high above the ground.

At one such moment, he hissed, “I’m gonna kill you, you ugly metal bitch. I’m gonna tear your head from your body and crush it beneath my feet.” The slight smile gracing her lips faded. Narrow blond brows knit together and a glimmer of true anger quickened the blue of her eyes.

 

“Ugly? _Ugly?_ You’re going to regret that, Blondie.”

 

He did.

 

She showed no quarter. Titanium fists shattered his jaw. Brutal claws raked across his chest, tearing his new shirt like wet paper. A strong kick broke most of his ribs.

 

They left him to bleed in the remains of a garden, the velvet soft petals ghosting caresses across his battered body. Blood gurgled in his mouth as he struggled to breathe. He released the power and it seeped back behind the wall in his mind, there waiting at his beck and call.

If he survived the night.

Walking was out of the question. It took all his concentration to levitate from the ruins of the town. He kept low to the ground, for he fell often, when pain overrode his tenuous concentration. Blood left a splattered trail of drops behind him. Clouds thickened above him. The rain would wash away his trail. Trunks nearly smiled. It was as if the gods were covering his tracks just in case the androids decided to make sure their prey met its end.  

 

It was almost dawn when he reached Capsule Corp. His mouth was dry as dust, dried blood caked all over his chin. His fingertips were numb. His vision blurred around the edges.

 

His strength gave out at the threshold of his mother’s room. She lay curled on her side, blue hair fanned like a wave across the pillow. Trunks leaned weakly against the doorjamb, his legs quivering with the effort.

 

“Mom?” the sound was barely recognizable as human speech. His voice was as mangled as his body, soft as a whisper. When she didn’t wake, Trunks felt tears sting his eyes. She must be so ashamed of him. He slid to the floor, weakness flooding his limbs.

With a gasp, his mother woke and she was at his side in a second.

 

“Oh Kami, Trunks!” she cried, pale hands fluttering over his face. Blearily, Trunks stared up at her face, gilded from one side by the rising sun in gold and white. She looked like an angel.

 

“You told me not to wake you, Mommy. I’m sorry.” His voice was soft and childlike, his mind clouded by pain and insidious madness. His jaw throbbed, blood hot and tinny on his tongue. Her hands were soft and warm, stroking his hair. Mentally, he smirked. It was perhaps the only place on his body that wasn’t caked with blood or swollen beyond recognition.

“I tried so hard . . . they broke my sword.” moisture dripped down on his cheeks. He heard the thunder of the coming storm outside and wondered vaguely if there was a leak in the roof. One droplet trickled into the corner of his mouth. Warm and salty. Not rain. Tears. He had made his mother cry. He frowned.

“I left it out there. I’ll get it back, I promise.” His mother’s hands cupped his face, fingers curling over his cheekbones. Her voice was steely.

 

“I don’t care about the damned sword, Trunks! Gods, I could kill them with my bare hands for what they’ve done to you.” Trunks believed her. One slender arm slid under his armpit, fisting in the fabric of his pants.

 

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you to the regen tank.” Trunks let out a low groan as his damaged shoulder was jarred, but they succeeded in standing. Progress was slow. The tank was thankfully still full from his last bout less than twelve hours before. Given the extremity of his injuries, his mother urged him to get in the tank fully clothed. But there was a persistent, nagging pain in his lower back and he asked his mother to help him remove the tattered shirt to look. Her horrified gasp was enough to make him worry. Trunks tried to twist, but the knives of pain stabbing his brain stopped him.

 

“Stay still, hun. There is a six inch long piece of steel in your lower back. If you were a full-blood human, this would have killed you hours ago. I’m going to pull it out and you are going to get into the tank as quickly as you can, do you understand?”

Trunks nodded, bracing himself. As much pain as he was in, he doubted this would hurt any worse.

 

He was wrong.

**

An hour and a half. Ninety minutes in her imperfect regen tank to heal what those metal demons from hell had done to her son. It was too much. She would stop this. Trunks would never stagger home again after watching a loved one die or being beaten half to death.

 

“It ends now!” she howled, caught a dark and frightening place between the darkest of rages and the most wrenching of sorrows. Bulma watched as she would a stranger as her own shaking hand touched the glass of the regen tank, Trunks’ face floating peacefully on the other side. Wisps of reddish liquid seeped from his many wounds and the water circulated around him, filtering out the dirt and impurities and restoring nutrients into his bloodstream. 

 

“I’ll be back, sweetheart. I’m going to change our future.” Bulma kissed the cold glass over Trunks’ forehead.

 

“I’ll be back before you wake up.”

 

As Trunks healed, Bulma quickly moved forward, planning as she went. She left a large meal in the refrigerator for her son when he woke, set out a fresh set of clothes and penned a note telling him to go to her computer, just in case. She checked and rechecked her cache of capsules in the belt around her waist. She considered showering, but quickly dismissed the idea. With all the things that could go wrong, cleanliness was the least of her worries. Finally, when she couldn’t put it off any longer, she threw open the sliding door to her lab and wheeled the time machine outdoors. The rain that had lingered on the horizon during the night had swept in and the clouds released their burden in heavy sheets, lightning and thunder flashing and rumbling chaotically. The desire to be gone was a fever in the blood, Trunks’ battered face branded in her mind. It was for love that she wanted to change history. Was there anything more altruistic or noble?

 

Her clothes were soaked through within seconds, her loose mane of blue hair plastered to her back. She climbed the ladder, buffeted from all sides by wind and rain. Her foot slipped on the rung and hung by her arms for a moment before she righted herself. Her right knee throbbed where it had struck the side.

The hatch was a safe haven.

 

Bulma’s soaked fingers keyed in the start-up code and the machine roared to life around her. She set Goku as the homing beacon, entering in the desired time, fifteen years in the past. The machine whirred and hummed, rising higher and higher, until Capsule Corp was lost in swirling grey clouds and whipping rain. The altitude was required for the necessary clearance used by the tachyon generator in such a jump.

 

Lightning arched through the sky in knives of hot, angry light.

Adrenaline pumped through her, fear and hope mixed.

White light spread in a perfect orb around the time machine and as it shook, blurring into a hazy place between material and immaterial, a bolt of lightning struck the forcefield.

Bulma heard the master alarm blaring before chaos reached out and grabbed her. 


	6. The Land of Wind and Fire

Noise woke her.

 

A high, persistent keening, a forlorn cry of a lonely beast.

 

Her entire body throbbed, bruised, tender, but unhurt. Bulma was grateful for that small fact. Flashes of memory assaulted her brain. She remembered Trunks’ return, the machine, the rain, the lightning . . .

 

Lightning!

 

Her blue eyes snapped open. The glass hatch of the machine encased her. But she wasn’t in the cockpit. She was curled in a fetal position on—sand? Incredulous, she fisted a hand in the warm, red sand and watched it slip between her fingers. Her wet hair and clothing had dried, but sand clung to her sweat-soaked skin despite her half-hysterical attempts to brush it off.

 

“Oh Kami . . .” she whispered hoarsely, her throat coated with sand.

 

She peered through the thick glass and saw barren desert stretching in towering red dunes, the burning jewel of a gold-hued sun blazing above. The sky was a deep, dusky purple, whether it was naturally that way or the red dust obscured it, Bulma didn’t know.  Panic clogged her throat and she struggled desperately to battle it down. The landscape around her was utterly alien.

This was not Earth.

 

What in the name of all the gods had happened? She pressed the palms of her hands against the hot glass and closed her eyes.

 

“Get a grip, Bulma. Panicking won’t help you or Trunks. _Think!_ The machine obviously malfunctioned and crashed. Go and see the damage.” Her voice echoed strangely in the enclosed space, as sweltering as a sauna.

 

Soothed, she struggled from underneath the hatch and scrambled to her feet, flimsy sneakers floundering in the heavy sand. Bulma coughed, feeling the grit of sand in her mouth. The wind whistled and roared past her ears, pale, soft skin stung by airborne debris. She spat what little saliva she had left in a vain attempt to rid herself of sand. The wind caught the spittle and flung it back in her face. With a cry, she scrubbed her chin with the hem of her shirt. Dry, draining heat hit her like a blow and beads of sweat trickled down her face and matted the hair at the nape of her neck.

 

Scanning the shallow depression she found herself in, Bulma took stock. The body of the time machine lay on its side, half-submerged in a dune. Dented, sparking, but mostly whole. The knot of panic in her belly eased.

Her ticket home was not scrap metal.

It could be salvaged.

She floundered over the machine and climbed atop its hull for a higher vantage point, one hand shading her eyes from the sun. Heat radiated from the metal in nearly visible waves and she vaguely smelled the reek of heated rubber as the soles of her shoes softened. The wind spitefully flung grains of sand into her face as she squinted into the distance.

 

 

Nothing but a sea of rolling red sand in every direction. Bulma checked the capsules at her belt. All present and accounted for. She pulled an empty one from her pocket and mentally ran through the math of encapsulating the time machine. She’d been doing this on the fly ever since she met Goku in the wilderness all those years ago. She froze.

 

“Goku . . . _Goku!_ Of course!” she cried. His ki signature had been the crux of her navigational plot! He had to be nearby! Laughing at herself, she slid down the hull of the time machine and crawled inside the idly smoking cockpit, exposed wiring sparking and shards of broken glass jabbing against the armor of her denim jeans. She tapped a rapid combination of commands into the nav computer, crossing her fingers. It reluctantly coughed to life.

Exultant in success, Bulma sent out a ki sweep of a three hundred mile radius, willing the familiar blimp to appear. Her breathing quickened as the machine beeped. Not one but _five_ blimps zipped into view, approaching her fast. Not mech, the reading said, but alive: a ki-wielding species. None were recognized by the nav computer’s database. She honed in the viewfinder.

 

“Damn, they’re fast buggers, whoever they are,” she whispered.

 

Any faster and they’d be going supersonic.

 

She only had a handful of minutes before they arrived. She squeezed two buttons on her wristwatch and there was a minute purr of electric activity. In her boredom on Namek, tortured by frightening—and sometimes arousing—dreams about a certain Saiyan prince, she had fashioned this little baby while Gohan and Krillin were away. It contained enough electricity to repulse a powerful ki-wielder long enough for her to escape. If she tinkered a little, she might alter the parameters to make it an offensive weapon as well.

 

Struck by a sudden thought, she altered the scan to show rudimentary power level. Fear clogged her throat, quickening her breathing and already frantic heartbeat. Gods, they were strong. Strong enough to tear her to pieces with minimal effort. Bulma forced her limbs from their torpor and hurriedly gathered the pieces of her shattered time machine together. A distant boom rose over the howl of the wind. Bulma glared up into the purple sky and saw five winking meteors approaching.

Too late.

No time.

Should she hide?

She stared regretfully at the empty capsule in her hand. She knew what she didn’t want to do. The secret of capsulation technology belonged to her family alone. She would take the secret to her grave . . .

 

Any further reflection was forgotten when the winking red and blue stars landed with a crash. The ground heaved under her feet and Bulma fell to her knees, bracing her arms in the hot sand. Trunks’ face danced behind her eyes and she clung to him, her reason for living. Snarling in frustration, her head snapped up to peer through the cloud of dust and sand kicked up by their arrival. Five figures, two extremely tall, another two slightly shorter, and the last, the one who stood in the front, only slightly taller than Bulma herself.

 

Bulma stood quickly, discreetly wiping sand and nervous perspiration from her palms on her jeans. The wind quickly dispersed the dust and Bulma got her first look at the inhabitants of this planet. Her eyes gravitated to the two giants. A thrill of fear and recognition shot through her. The burly giant, bald pate shining and thin mustache oddly sinister on his brutish face, Bulma recognized him as the Saiyan that had arrived with Vegeta on Earth so long ago. The other giant was more slender, compact, spiky black hair falling down his shoulders, tamed only by a gold circlet, set with a green stone. The other tall ones looked enough alike to be brothers, thick-set and burly with spiky hair tied back. One had a scar running through his thick black brow and over his right eye. All four men wore scouters.

 

The last was almost dwarfed by the comparative size and brawn of her comrades. Her black hair fanned over her shoulders and down her back in gleaming spikes, the slender arms crossed over her chest lined with sleek muscle. For a moment, Bulma stared at her in wonder, the first Saiyan woman she had ever seen. She looked young, in her late teens at most, but age was a hard thing to pin down with Saiyans.

 

It was impossible to mistake now. All five wore armor and battlesuits similar to Vegeta’s, and all five had furry brown tails wrapped around their waists. Her features were too strong, too feral to be beautiful, with the wide, sharp cheekbones and long nose. Slender black brows arched over shining black eyes. The only feature that softened the catlike severity of her face was her mouth, the soft fullness of her lips flattened into a thoughtful frown. Though Bulma thought she stared at each for what seemed like hours, only seconds had passed since they landed. The bald giant spoke up, fists balled in poorly controlled anger.

 

“This can’t be the bitch who disrupted the grid! A blue-haired weakling female? And one who can’t even pilot a craft! Feh!” anger bubbled up suddenly within her even as her cheeks flooded with embarrassed heat. Never in her life had she crashed without someone deliberately trying to shoot her down and the words stung her pride.

 

“ _Weakling?!_ Listen here, you Saiyan prick, I built this machine from scrap and could pilot it blindfolded if it hadn’t been for the damned storm! So fuck off!”

 

Bulma was gratified by the look of shocked surprise on the big idiot’s face, but the feeling evaporated when she felt one thick hand around her throat. Before the fingers could exert pressure however, her shock device did its work and the Saiyan jerked away with a yelp. With the quiet sizzle of spent circuitry, Bulma knew her first line of defense had shorted out. Her finger touched the blue capsule at her belt, full of trank darts tailor made to Saiyan physiology. She had been contemplating pumping Trunks full of one long enough to talk him out of fighting the androids again . . .

 

The bald giant’s beady black eyes glared murder at her he sputtered, incoherent in fury. A quick glance at his comrades found them in varying degrees of amusement and indifference. The tension of the situation was interrupted by the female Saiyan’s laughter. Head thrown back, her laughter sang over even the wind, all her white teeth gleaming. As if on cue, the shorter pair of Saiyans broke out into rough, friendly laughter. Only the tall one in the back remained silent, staring dispassionately out across the landscape.

 

“Watch it, Nappa. Another shock like that might singe the only hair left on your head!” the female Saiyan’s voice was husky and warm. Not the cultured tones silk or velvet, but a pleasant, scratchy wool that would keep you warm during a cold night, Bulma thought. Nappa growled low in his throat. His hand darted out and closed around Bulma’s wrist, snapping it as if it was a twig. She cried out in surprised pain and fury. In the next instant, Nappa was on his back in the red sand, the female’s foot resting casually on his massive chest. The deadly gentleness of her words sent cold fear palpitating around Bulma’s heart, even as she felt an inkling of grateful approval.

 

“Careful, Nappa. The prince charged me with investigating what disturbed our defense grid and this woman is the only plausible explanation. He wouldn’t take kindly to you pawing what belongs to him. Touch her again and I’ll break your neck.”

Nappa snarled and shoved off the booted foot, leaping to his feet with surprising agility for one of his size. He glared murder at the female, ki rising in red tendrils of energy.

 

“I’m going to make you wish you’d never taken this assignment, second-class,” he spat, his voice low and thick with rancor. Bulma glanced at the female. She was smiling. Nonchalantly, she extended an arm, a tiny ball of gold ki coalescing in her palm. Bulma saw Nappa quail slightly, mouth twisted into a pained grimace. Bulma wished she had a scouter to read her power level.

 

“Come now, _Elite._ Do you really want to lose your life over something as trivial as taking orders from a second-class female? The prince says every drop of Saiyan blood is precious, but I doubt he’d miss an oaf as stupid as you.” with an inarticulate snarl, Nappa leapt at her.

 

Bulma shrank back and considered fleeing while they were distracted . . . a large, warm hand rested on her shoulder. The slender giant stared down at her with calm black eyes, shaking his head very slightly in warning. His large form blocked the wind and sun, so Bulma contented herself in his shade while watching the fight. One hand held aloft with an orb of ki, the female was trading furious combinations with Nappa using only one hand.

 

“Show off,” muttered the giant behind her. Bulma nodded in agreement, shading her eyes with one hand as the female kneed Nappa in the gut, as he doubled over, she brought the fragile ball of ki crashing over his head in glittering shards.

 

The female landed, not even turning to look if her opponent was still breathing, her tail flicking back and forth in what Bulma thought was smugness. Her glittering black eyes raked over the broken machine, then darted to her crew. Without a word, the two tall ones began gathering the pieces, piling them on their shoulders as if it were nothing.  Out in the sand, Bulma saw Nappa totter to his feet, holding his bald head in his hands.

 

The female approached Bulma, who stood dumbly cradling her wrist as she watched the two men seize her only means of escape in their hard hands.

 

“What race are you, woman? Not Saiyan, with the hair and no tail, but the closest thing to it I’ve ever seen.”

The blunt observation roused Bulma from her vacant staring. Absurdly, she stuck out her good hand in front of her.

 

“I am Bulma Briefs of Earth.” The Saiyan woman eyed her outstretched hand with a lift of brow, then lifted her dark-fire eyes to Bulma’s crystalline blue, coolly speculative now. Bulma dropped her hand, wincing at the pang in her hurt wrist.

 

“Earth,” the word seemed garbled and unfamiliar on her tongue, “What sector is it in? Is it within the Empire?”

Bulma scrambled for the proper reply, questions whizzing through her mind.

Empire? Whose?

Frieza’s? Was he the prince she was talking about?

She shuddered in the sweltering heat of the desert, gooseflesh rising on her bare arms, at the thought of coming face to face with the one who had tortured Vegeta for so many years and nearly killed them all.

Out of her depth, Bulma replied truthfully, “I don’t know.”

The Saiyan’s eyes widened by a fraction, her tail twitching meditatively.

 

“You don’t know?” the tone was outwardly cool, but Bulma could detect the veiled mistrust.

 

“My people only became a space-faring race very recently. We—many of my people don’t even believe in life outside our atmosphere.”

The smirk widened.

 

“And you built that craft with your race ignorant of other planets? I’m impressed, Bulma-Briefs of Earth.” She folded her arms casually over her chest, her stance relaxed. Bulma snickered to herself. The Saiyan ran her first name and surname together into one word. Saiyans didn’t have surnames, Bulma remembered belatedly, recalling Vegeta’s puzzlement at the custom.

 

“I am Sansai, daughter of Aspar and Negi of the second class. I am called Captain and this is my crew.” The female said with some pride. _Egotism must be in the genes,_ Bulma thought dryly.

 

Sansai waved her hand at the two gathering Bulma’s time machine onto a bier, Nappa still grousing in the sand, and the slender giant standing behind Bulma. As she did so, Bulma noticed a black symbol tattooed on the underside of her right wrist. Before she could make out what it was, one slender finger pointed to the burly Saiyan with the scar.

 

“That is Keyuka and his brother Zuki; second class soldiers of the palace guard.” Sansai glanced up at the man standing behind Bulma and Bulma was surprised to see affection soften her onyx eyes.

 

“And this big fool here is the son of my father’s brother, Broly. And of course, you’ve met Nappa.”

There was a wry twist to her words and Bulma realized abruptly that she liked Sansai. Though an agent of Frieza or some other dark emperor, bloody-minded Saiyan and intent on taking her captive, Bulma liked her.

 

“Captain!” Keyuka spoke up, jerking his thumb at the ready bier. Sansai nodded and glanced at Broly and Nappa.

 

An unspoken order was given and Bulma absently wondered about the depth of the Saiyan telepathic ability. A handy trick on the battlefield, no doubt, in that it provided cohesive action without an enemy’s knowledge. With a shudder, Bulma prayed that this planet’s moon had a very slow orbit. Five giant apes wreaking havoc was not something she wanted to witness, even from a scientific standpoint.

 

The two men joined the rank, the latter grudgingly, blood trickling from the burn on his gleaming scalp. Sansai returned her gaze to Bulma’s.

 

“There is a med bay at the Capital. They can fix up your arm.”

 

Silently Bulma commended her. _Clever for a Saiyan,_ Bulma thought, _trying to entice me along with the lure of medical treatment._ She had little choice on the matter, with no ship and no idea where to go, she had to go with them.

And her arm hurt like hell.

Scowling to show that she did not like her situation one bit, she said petulantly, “I can’t fly.”

Sansai smirked.

 

Bulma barely had time to register a sense of motion and vertigo before Sansai had swept Bulma over her shoulder caveman-style and burst into flight. She watched the dunes get smaller and smaller within seconds, her stomach doing sickening flips. When she recovered slightly, Bulma gathered air into her lungs and screamed with everything in her, pounding her fists against Sansai’s back. Bulma contemplated grabbing her tail, but the soft, furry appendage wound around her wrists in a steady hold, careful at her broken wrist.

 

“Stay still. It’s not far.” Bulma vehemently hated the smug amusement in Sansai’s voice. She opened her mouth to reply, but Sansai leveled off from her upward climb with a few theatric rolls and Bulma’s stomach rebelled even as her heart felt a thrill.

 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she muttered to the smooth blue-black hardness of Sansai’s chestplate. Her keen ears must have heard, for she stopped spinning.

 

The warm blue ki shield protected Bulma from the cold and thin air and she allowed herself to enjoy the flight. An adrenaline junkie to the core, speed and danger had always been intoxicating to her. Behind Sansai, Bulma saw the others spread in a loose vee, Keyuka and Zuki holding the time machine between them. She prayed whoever their prince was would let her repair it in peace. In her jump, not only time, but space was bent. Bulma was pondering how to fix the glitch when a city appeared among the red sand, shadowed crags and forests of dark green blanketing the landscape. Far below, Bulma could make out the moving dots of aircraft of all sizes and awed at the towering, almost archaic architecture reminiscent of Gothic castles dotting the terrain.

 

“What is this place?” she whispered to herself. Sansai chuckled in derision.

 

“Don’t you know what planet you’re on, Bulma-Briefs of Earth? This is heart’s blood of the Empire, the great city founded on the conquest of our forefathers. This is the Capital of Planet Vegeta.”

 

Bulma gasped, reeling with shock.

Planet Vegeta.

And it’s prince . . . her Vegeta, alive! An insidious voice told her that, given the malfunction of the time machine, she could be on Planet Vegeta generations before her Vegeta was born. Her heart sang without thought. To see his face again, hear his voice . . . a small shiver ran through her.

 

“What about Frieza? Does he--”

 

Sansai stopped abruptly in mid-air. With a slight shrug of her shoulder, she had Bulma clasped by her upper arms, dangling hundreds of feet over the ground. Pain crept up from her complaining wrist, but Bulma felt riveted in place by her burning black eyes, the sudden wave of fury and suspicion roiling there. Belatedly, she realized her blunder. The story came to her piecemeal over the years from Gohan, Krillin and Vegeta. She remembered that the Saiyans had been slaves to Frieza, his own personal army of powerful destroyers. He feared their power and had destroyed their planet.

 

The others of Sansai’s crew crowded together, their voices harsh and angry.

 

“Just let me kill her! The prince would have no use for her!” Nappa bellowed.

 

His malice was to be expected. But the other giant, Broly, he was seething and spitting, half-mad. Keyuka and Zuki were trying to placate him, physically restraining him from coming any closer.

 

“Shut up, all of you!” Sansai’s voice cut through the noise like a sword and the crew fell silent. Broly stared at Bulma with haunted, hate-filled eyes, trembling with the aftermath of his rage. Bulma felt the chill of foreboding. If Broly ever found her alone, he would kill her for mentioning the hated name.

 

“You’d better start explaining yourself, Bulma-Briefs. I don’t know if I can keep my crew from killing you. _Talk._ ” The words, so softly spoken, held a very real threat.

 

Severe and swarthy, Sansai’s face was an inch from her own and she was struck by the youth of it. So young and yet so tough.

 

“Take me to your prince. I’ll explain myself to him.” Bulma said firmly. Whether Sansai was impressed or annoyed by Bulma’s bravado, she couldn’t tell. The blank scowl didn’t change an iota. Somehow, Sansai’s silence was more frightening than Nappa’s malice or Broly’s mad rage. Sansai took in a deep breath and let it out, swinging Bulma into a more comfortable position along her side.

 

“Very well, then. I’ll take you to the prince. But I warn you, Bulma-Briefs, Prince Vegeta does not suffer fools and will know if you lie. Choose your words carefully.”

 

 

 

 

Sansai landed just outside a large white building and several techs in uniform wandered out. Bulma was thrust unceremoniously towards one such tech with gold skin and a shock of green hair.

 

“Tend her.” Sansai said brusquely, brushing sand from her black battlesuit on her shoulder. Bulma glared murder at the hapless tech and strode after Sansai as she and her crew began to stalk toward the towering monolith, presumably the royal palace. The large shadow cast by the building embraced Bulma in cool comfort after the sweltering heat of the desert sun and the fire of Sansai’s ki.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded shrilly, grabbing Sansai’s muscled forearm. A ripple ran through the olive skin and Bulma wisely removed her hand at the sharp glance. One dark brow rose in surprise.

 

“Where are you taking my ship? Are you Saiyans pirates as well as kidnappers?”

 

Bulma thought she saw the corner of Sansai’s mouth twitch and didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious. She crossed her arms over her chest in what Bulma now recognized as a typically Saiyan stance.

 

“I go to report to my prince. I suggest you make yourself presentable before I return.” The black eyes flashed in humor as she took in Bulma’s bedraggled appearance.

 

“You have one hour.” She leaned closer and said in a tone too soft for the others to hear.

 

“Don’t worry, Bulma-Briefs of Earth. I will see to it that your ship is returned to you untouched.”

 

With a quick flash of sharp teeth and a friendly flick of tail, Sansai was gone, leading her small squad toward the palace, trading glares with Nappa. Bulma exhaled an irritated breath through her nostrils, massaging her temples in an effort to knead away her tension. She turned back to tech and, after failing to understand the runes sewn into his tunic, asked, “What is your name?” the tech’s tiny green eyes blinked rapidly before stuttering, “I am Solan, mistress.” Bulma frowned at the title. ‘Mistress?’ He was a slave, then. Bulma managed a smile and motioned to her wrist.

 

“I seem to have broken my wrist, Solan. Can you help?” the tech nodded furiously and led her into the med center.

 

Bulma was nearly salivating at the wealth of technology in the med center and had beset her hapless custodian with questions. Instead of a regen tank used to treat major wounds, the tech had wrapped her wounded appendage in a compress with the same healing fluids. Her bones snapped back together with an audible pop and she felt no pain under its ministrations. Solan gave her a fresh set of clothes with a shy smile and directed her to the lavatories. After washing away perhaps a pound of sand, she dressed in the jeans and long Capsule Corp t-shirt she had packed with her, cursing the lack of anything more appealing.

 

And, like a teenager before a date, she primped in front of the mirror, recalling with perfect clarity the angular beauty of Vegeta’s face. She frowned.  The time jump had been set for fifteen years. Regardless of dimension, would Vegeta be fifteen years younger than her? Gods, he would be as devastating as ever while she . . . once more, Bulma ruthlessly assessed the face staring back at her in the mirror. Her blue hair was still long and lustrous, her pale skin still unblemished save for a few faint lines. The mirror image of Bulma frowned, and blue eyes glared at the body reflected. She lifted an arm and pinched the flesh of the underside. Long, lean years had thinned her curves. But, all in all, she was still beautiful, Bulma decided finally.

 

Releasing a breath, Bulma squared her shoulders, mentally forming a flimsy alibi. Still mumbling and cursing to herself as she exited the lavatory, she ran head-first into what felt like a brick wall. She was thrown back hard onto her rump. Her eyes blazed up to the face of the one who accosted her, a scathing remark on her tongue. The words died on her lips as she beheld the familiar face with mute surprise. His wide features studied her for a moment. It wasn’t until he reached a hand down to help her up that Bulma finally wrapped her mind around his presence.

 

“Goku!” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck, “Oh I knew you’d be here! It’s been so long . . .” she felt betraying tears wet her eyelashes. Large, rough hands rested on her shoulders and gently but firmly disengaged the embrace, holding her at arm’s length to study her more closely. His brow set in a puzzled frown, Bulma saw immediately that this was not the Goku she had grown up with, and mentally slapped her forehead. Of course it wasn’t! If he was on Planet Vegeta and Sansai had never heard of Earth . . .

For one, he was wearing Saiyan armor and still had his tail. For another . . . his eyes were different. Gone was the carefree, almost foolish good-naturedness.

 

“I’m sorry, lady. You must have me confused with someone else. I am Kakkarot.”

The breezy voice that had lifted her spirits so often had changed as well, into something stonier, something much more serious. Somehow, Bulma managed a trembling semblance of a smile. Although he was almost twenty years dead in her time, to see him alive and well in this one was a joy to her.

 

“Forgive me, K--Kakkarot. You—you look like someone I used to know. He was a very good friend to me.”

A slight smirk curled at the corner of his mouth and Bulma swallowed hard. Such an expression rested easier on Vegeta’s face. But then Kakkarot’s hand scratched the back of his head sheepishly and Bulma was assaulted by a wave of nostalgia. That was more like her Goku.

 

“That’s not much of a surprise. My family’s genes are . . . strong.”

 

“My name’s Bulma, by the way, Bulma of Earth,” she said to fill the silence that followed, hoping against hope that the words would spark some forgotten past. She was disappointed when Kakkarot only grinned and said, “Nice to meet you, Bulma.” He was a lot more easygoing than the other Saiyans she’d met, and some part of her melted with relief when she realized that even raised Saiyan, he was still Goku, if a bit more mature.

 

As he lifted his arm to rest it on the wall, Bulma noticed how roughed up he looked, like he did after a spar. He reeked like it too. Bulma gestured to the scuff marks on his white chestplate.

 

“Sparring, were you? Who won?”

The teasing affection of her tone surprised him and Bulma bit her tongue reprovingly. _Kami help me when I see Vegeta again,_ she thought.

Unfazed, Kakkarot replied, “Uh, I was sparring with my brother Raditz. We were fighting to see who would get to spar with the prince, you see, when Sansai came in with her crew.” Kakkarot leaned against the doorjamb, his tail swinging idly as he recounted.

 

“Sansai looked pretty upset about something, so did Broly, but he always gets mad when he sees me. Nappa looked a bit worse for wear too. Vegeta asked if they encountered trouble, and Sansai only grinned, like she had secret.” Kakkarot eyed her speculatively and Bulma smiled back. She had no trouble imagining the report given about her. Kakkarot plucked at a torn piece of his battlesuit before continuing.

 

“Nappa said that ‘the foul-mouthed weakling whore’ was one of Frieza’s spies. Sansai said he was an idiot to think that, Nappa nearly charged her, Broly defended her . . . it was a mess. Finally Vegeta threatened to personally remove the tail of anyone who so much as breathed out of line and that shut everybody up. The story came out pretty quick after that. The whole court’s dying to meet you, Bulma, the Earth woman who knocked Nappa on his ass and made Sansai like her.” Bulma grinned a little smugly before asking, “Is she so cold that it’s surprising for her to like me?”  Kakkarot waved off the question.

 

“No, it’s not like that at all. It’s just . . . Sansai’s tough. She’s had to be: a second class female of her age on the prince’s own squad? The only ones she shows even the slightest affection for are her cousin and--” he broke off, stopping himself from saying too much. His black eyes darkened and Bulma saw a serious warrior, a rare look on his face in her time. Behind the bland mask, Bulma saw his confusion. He wondered why he could talk to her so easily, after only just meeting.

 

“Well, I’d better be going. Vegeta wants me on patrol tonight. He also said,” Kakkarot’s eyebrows knit together as he concentrated, “‘Bathe first, Kakkarot, I’ll not have those on my guard reeking like Arlian mud boars.’” His voice hoarsened and face twisted into an exaggerated scowl, he gave a fair imitation of Vegeta. Bulma laughed aloud even as her heart beat fast at the thought of seeing him.

 

“All right. I—I’m glad I met you, Kakkarot,” her voice quavered only slightly but his keen ears caught it. In unthinking affection, he squeezed her hand.

 

“I’ll see you around, Bulma.” And then he was gone, disappearing into the lavatory.

 

 

 

 

Night had fallen when Bulma exited the med center to find Sansai. Planet Vegeta’s purple sky, still dusky and warm around the horizon, glimmered with a wealth of stars, more than she had ever seen on Earth. Bathed in their cold light, Bulma felt a soft peace slide over her. She dragged in a deep breath and let it out slowly, shivering a little in the chill. Planet Vegeta was a place of extremes, for sure. There was the slightest stirring of air to her right, and a perceptible increase in temperature. The raspy, comforting voice broke the fragile stillness.

 

“You’re late.”

Bulma snorted, not deigning her Saiyan companion a glance. She instead studied the unfamiliar constellations in the sky, drawing patterns absentmindedly.

 

“So? What’s the verdict? Am I Frieza’s spy?” an echoing snort broke the air and on the periphery of her vision, Bulma saw the flash of Sansai’s tail twitching.

 

“If you are, you are the stupidest spy in history. Crashing your ship in the desert, letting yourself be captured, giving away your employer’s name . . . no, you’re no spy. You are, however, a puzzle. What would an Earthling want on Planet Vegeta—and claiming to have no knowledge of it? You are familiar with my people, for you did not show surprise at our power or our tails. Indeed, a puzzle. What are you seeking? Protection from greedy slave-mongers? An offer of commerce? Or perhaps you were in the neighborhood and wanted to do a little sight-seeing.” The ringing sarcasm was enough to set off the building laughter at Sansai’s diatribe. Bulma at last glanced at the Saiyan standing next to her and was surprised to see the approval in her black gaze.

 

“So which is it, Bulma-Briefs of Earth?” despite the gruffness of her tone, Bulma could hear the intense curiosity in her voice, and see the minute tension in her stance.

 

“Just Bulma, please.” Sansai shrugged, impatiently waiting an answer.

 

“As you wish.”

 

Avoiding the question, Bulma asked, “You said you were second class. But how is it that you have an Elite on your squad? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Sansai grinned wickedly at this, her eyes saying that Bulma hadn’t distracted her for a minute.

 

“Typically, you are right. By all accounts, Nappa was of higher rank and should have led the scouting party. But . . . but Prince Vegeta saw potential in me, in Broly and set us on his squad. We have proven our worth and he rewarded me today with leading my own scouting party. Nappa was just a plus. He made the Prince angry, so as punishment, he had to take a punch in the gut, so to speak.”

 

“You took it quite literally,” Bulma muttered and Sansai snickered.

 

“He didn’t know Earthlings were so fragile. No one ever accused Nappa of being smart.” Bulma nearly smiled. All Saiyans, it seemed, apologized only with generic remarks. A comfortable silence followed. Bulma staved off more probing questions with one of her own.

 

“How old are you, Sansai? You look no older than my son, but you have a maturity beyond years.” She was taken aback by the question, but answered without pause.

 

“I am eighteen standard years.” Bulma blinked. Eighteen and fighting with full-grown warriors? But then, Goku had killed the world’s greatest threat at age five.

 

“You have a son? Why did he not accompany you?” Bulma winced at the memory of Trunks’ face in the regen tank, beaten within an inch of his life by those lifeless monsters.

 

“His name is Trunks. He is a very strong warrior and was recovering from a fight that nearly killed him when I left.” A glimmer of excited approval danced in the depths of Sansai’s eyes.

 

“Did he kill his enemies?”

 

Bulma’s throat convulsed at the simple question. Every second she spent here was one where Trunks may lay dying at the hands of the androids. Even if he got her message, he would think that she had abandoned him . . .

 

“No. But he will someday soon. I believe in him.”

 

Sansai nodded once, curt and oddly comforting, as if she was in complete agreement. Her eyes unfocused for a moment and Bulma remembered their telepathic abilities. Sansai snapped out of it, looking sharply at Bulma and struggling to stifle a smirk.

 

“Come, the prince wishes to see you.”

  

Turning smartly on her heel, Sansai stalked off as quietly as a cat, not even looking to see if Bulma followed. She stood rooted in place for a moment, fear and hope and love waging a violent war inside her. She fisted a hand over her heart to stop its painful throbbing. Sansai stopped, glaring back at her.

 

“Bulma, I don’t know how it is on Earth, but on Planet Vegeta, the prince is not kept waiting! Come! Or shall I sling you across my back?” the last was a something between teasing and threatening and Bulma willed life back into her limbs, her breath coming in hitching gasps.

 

Misinterpreting her distress, Sansai whispered, “You needn’t fear, Bulma. My Prince is an honorable man. No harm will come to you by his hand.”  Bulma let out a hysterical titter. Even when he was a half-mad monster, Bulma had known, under all the bluster and bravado, lay a beating heart and honor as pure as diamond. He frightened her, but she was never afraid he would hurt her.

 

To distract herself from the impending meeting as they wound their way through the labyrinthine halls of the palace, Bulma asked, “Where did you get your tattoo, Sansai?” her companion exhaled heavily at the infuriatingly slow pace and raked a hand through her mane of black hair. Absently, she tilted her wrist toward Bulma and she inspected the bold black ‘V’ surrounded by flames so intricate, Bulma’s eyes were soon lost in the pattern.

 

“This is my _mera’jah_. It is a symbol of my oath of absolute and undying loyalty to the Royal House of Planet Vegeta. I am bound by blood and honor to the Prince and any sons he will one day sire. It is an old custom, not meant for this new order.”

_What would it be like,_ Bulma wondered, _to bind yourself inextricably to someone nearly into slavery, it sounded like, at only eighteen?_ Another small part of her rejoiced at the last part. ‘Sons he will one day sire,’ so he had no mate, no children in this time. Thank Kami. 

 

Dazed, Bulma realized that they had reached the throne room, judging by the pair of massive doors carved of shining red stone in the scenes of some great battle. At its center stood a figure glazed in gold, his muscled arms raised overhead, his upswept flame of hair distinguishing him as Vegeta’s ancestor.

 

“The Legendary, King Vegeta the first,” Sansai whispered in nearly religious reverence, “and his son, Prince Vegeta the twenty-ninth, is the Legendary reborn.” Now Bulma knew the answer. Sansai believed Vegeta to be the messiah of her people, destined to free them from Frieza. Thinking of Goku in her own time, Bulma hoped here, Vegeta would be the one to free his people.

 

The door opened, revealing an empty room, painted in black and red and gold. Sansai had said that all the Elites and Council Members and petitioners had been sent away. And with the king away on a parley with other planetary kings under his command, the only one left was Vegeta. Bulma could have cared less for the politics surrounding their meeting. He was here. Her Vegeta. Alive. Her heart thundered, eyes raking the room for his lithe form. The black throne at the end of the long hall was empty. Dimly, she saw two men seated at the table, gorging themselves on the rich fare. Bulma’s mind did not see the form of them, but only as not-Vegeta.

Then she saw him.

His back was turned to them, looking out into the sky. The gravity-defying sweep of his black hair was heartbreakingly familiar as was his still, pensive stance. He wore a black battlesuit, his typical white boots and white chestplate. A regal red cape hung from his shoulders.

 

Bulma felt as if she was floating across the floor towards him. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her fingers twitched, betraying her deep desire to touch him. If only to hold him still, only to keep him from leaving her again . . .

 

“My Prince,” Sansai said, with a deep bow from the waist, her tattooed wrist over her heart. A deep, derisive grunt emanated from the form by the window. Bulma bit back the urge to scream at him to look at her.

 

“It’s about time, Sansai. I was beginning to think you got lost.” The rusty baritone of his voice sluiced over her in its hoarse beauty and she swallowed hard. Though the words were cool and caustic, Bulma could hear the poorly veiled affection in his tone. A quick glance at Sansai found the Saiyan grinning. Were they . . . did he . . .? Her heart fluttered in shock and pain.

 

Any other though was banished when Vegeta turned, his black eyes searing into hers. By all the gods, he was still as beautiful as ever. An older, harder, more dangerous version of her son’s face.

He flinched and Bulma saw dawning recognition break over his face and her heart sang.

He knew her!

One gloved finger rose to point. Lips curled into a snarl, he bellowed, _“You!”_

“Me.” Bulma said calmly, “Hello, Vegeta. My name is Bulma. I am your wife.”


	7. Time’s Shattered Mirror

_“Wife?!”_  Sansai’s voice rose through two octaves on the one word.

 

Bulma immediately regretted the rash outburst, but she couldn’t bear to tear her eyes from his face. He too, seemed entranced, all the anger vanishing. With the catlike fluidity he’d always wielded so casually, Vegeta descended the steps to the throne to stand before her, his red cape flowing gracefully behind him. A silver medallion as large as her palm hung around his neck, set with an opaque silver stone. Geometric designs were etched into the sapphire-blue rim. It rested just below eye-level for her. Bulma frowned. Her Vegeta only beat her out in height by the shock of spiky black hair. But this one . . . he was _taller_. Only an inch or so shorter than Goku. The reason appeared in her mind as if written in the air.

 

“You weren’t as tall in my time.”

 

Almost absently, she closed the gap between them and rested her hand on the red crest on his armor over his heart. Both of them flinched, shocked by an almost electrical current arching between them. Her fingers trembled and she felt the weight of his gaze sending stabs of heat through her face, her neck and beyond as he took in every inch of her. Through the armor, she could feel the heat of his skin, the steady pounding of his heart and a brutal stab of love and desire cramped her innards, nearly blinding her to rational thought. Still, she stared intently at the medallion, seeing her reflection in the stone. Only seconds had passed, and she could hear Sansai and the two guards moving behind her, all gone silent by her words.

 

“Planet Vegeta fell in my time, destroyed by Frieza. The only survivors were those off-world: Nappa, Raditz, G—Kakkarot, and you. When you defied him, Frieza, he . . . he starved you.”

 

Bulma shuddered, remembering the hollow look on Vegeta’s face when he had told her, one of the rare times he allowed her glimpses into the hellish life he’d led. She darted a quick glance at Sansai and saw horror and sorrow written plainly on her features. With the appetites of the Saiyans, one skipped meal was crippling. His heart beat slow and steady under her hand, calming her. His body was as still as a marble statue, but his breath stirred her hair. He was here. He was alive. Her heart could ask for no greater pleasure.

 

“It stunted your growth. You were little taller than I, though no one in the world would dare belittle you for it. You walked like you were a hundred feet tall.”

 

A smile touched her lips and she at last found the bravery to lift her eyes, over his corded, masculine throat with its thudding pulsebeat, over the sharp angles of his fiercely beautiful face, coming to a stop on his smoldering onyx eyes, framed by the pronounced widow’s peak. In his eyes she saw wary watchfulness, curiosity, and that glimmer of recognition that made her heart leap, as if she was telling him a story he had heard before, but couldn’t remember clearly.

 

“My Prince,” said a rough voice from the shadows.

 

Vegeta’s head snapped up and he stepped away from her, breaking the contact of her hand on his chest. Needles of pain stabbed her heart, but Bulma fisted her outstretched hand and let it fall to her side.

 

Eyes burning, she followed the direction of the voice to its source and flinched as she saw a darker, harder, scarred replica of Goku’s face. Related, clearly. His father, judging by the sketchy approximation of his age. _He wasn’t kidding when he said his genes were strong,_ she thought. Beside him was a taller warrior, with the same olive-toned skin and a mane of black hair falling to his waist; Bulma recognized him as Goku’s brother, Raditz.

 

“Speak, Seer,” Vegeta said, not even acknowledging her presence.

 

“This woman is telling the truth. I have Seen it.”

 

The man’s eyes met Bulma’s and seemed to take their measure of her, the cold deadness evaporating into an odd empathy. Vegeta snorted, crossing his arms.

 

“How did she come to be here, then, Bardock?”

 

“Her machine, Prince Vegeta,” Sansai spoke up, all her earlier misgivings having given way to admiration, “A _time_ machine. That is why it knocked out our defense grid; the power of the jump must have scrambled it.” She glanced at the man called Bardock for affirmation. He nodded once with a dark scowl.

 

“Yes. That is the way of it. Makes it damn hard to See anything, with a blue-haired Earthling fiddling with the flow of Time,” he grumbled. Bulma grinned at him a little smugly.

 

“Why have I never heard of this before?” Vegeta snarled, muscles coiling in agitation. The temperature around him increased by at least ten degrees and Bulma shrank away, tendrils of blue electricity crackling around his feet. Bardock remained blandly composed.

 

“That future was averted at your birth, my Prince, after I received my Sight,” his eyes became vacant and haunted and his whole body quivered. Bulma felt a ball of mixed fear and sympathy coalesce in her stomach. His voice was ragged when he spoke again.

 

“Do you have any idea what it is to see the horror of the unknown? Every decision of those around me splinters into hundreds of possible futures, probable outcomes, each with their own consequences. But ever since I came to your father days after you were born and told him of your fate and averted Planet Vegeta’s destruction . . . It is as if Time was a mirror, and saving our planet shattered it. Each reflecting shard is a different future. In this woman’s time, you die at the hands of metal monsters of inestimable power.”

 

Raditz, Sansai and Vegeta turned to look at Bulma, each with the same question burning in their eyes. Tears welled in her eyes.

 

“He’s right,” she croaked, speaking to all of them, drinking in Vegeta’s virile presence as a reminder, “Vegeta died fifteen years ago in my time. I meant to go back, to warn him and Goku—who you know as Kakkarot—of the danger . . . but something went wrong. And now my son is all alone, with the fucking machines stalking his every step--” she broke off as scorching tears ran down her cheeks.

 

“Your son . . .” Sansai repeated softly, “Vegeta’s son. A prince of Saiyans . . .”

 

Again, they looked to Bardock in mute shock. The slightest of smiles curled at his lips.

 

“Yes, the boy. In every future, he is there. A hybrid with unspeakable power and sharp intelligence, a mighty prince.” Bulma turned to Vegeta, ignoring his glare and flinch of distaste as she grabbed his hand.

 

“Give me my ship, Vegeta. It was damaged in the crash. I must repair it and go back . . . our—he needs me.” His expression was inscrutable, his stance standoffish. Whatever iota of feeling he had had upon seeing her was hidden behind that cold, impenetrable mask of princely displeasure. Bulma awaited his answer in taut expectation.

 

“You built a time machine from scratch on a backwater planet incapable of flight beyond the bounds of their planet’s gravity. Though you have no ki to speak of, I could find use for your talents against Frieza and the rest of his damnable race. You will begin tomorrow.” 

 

“The hell I will, you arrogant bastard!” Bulma burst out, fists balled at her sides, entire body humming with angry energy, “I just told you our son is in danger for his life, that my future depends on me and my machine and you have the hubris, the unmitigated _gall_ to demand me to build weapons for you?”

 

Hot moisture clouded her vision, tears of rage, not sorrow. She raked them away with the back of her hand, glaring murder at him. The love in her heart was poison. This man didn’t love her, no more than her Vegeta had. _Bulma girl, you must be a glutton for punishment,_ whispered a snide voice in the back of her head. The fragile shield of anger wavered, cracked. Hot, choking despair lodged in her throat and her angry words dissolved into a howl of grief. She flung herself at him, pounding her weak fists against his armor, bruising them. Still his face was unmoved, as forbidding and merciless as death. The words spilled from her in ragged gasps, tears pouring down her cheeks.

 

“How could you, Vegeta? How could you? How could you abandon us like that? Why—why did you let me love you and then go and die? Give me back my son. Give me Trunks. He’s all I have left! I have to get back to him!”

 

Warm, iron-hard hands closed around her wrists, stilling her blows. With a screech of anger, she tried to pull away, writhing away from the warm body, the familiar wild scent worming its way past her hard-won control, the burning eyes that held her soul captive. But he held fast. Kami, even in a feather-light hold she still could not budge him!

 

“Let go of me! _Let go!_   I hate you! You don’t give a shit about me or my son!” something warm and soft wound around her waist. Her fury broke enough to see that it was his tail, holding her fast and still.

 

“Woman,” his voice was as smooth as velvet, almost crooning, too soft for anyone to overhear, even with keen Saiyan hearing. One hand released hers and drifted up to her face, cupping it, brusquely brushing away her tears.

 

“I will make you a deal. Give me a weapon to improve my power, and you will have your ship and a legion of mastertechs to aid you, on my honor. Agreed, Earthling?”

 

Unnerved by his un-Vegetalike gentleness and overwhelming proximity, she managed a nod. The smirk she knew so well curled at his lips.

 

“Good. Sleep well, woman.” With that, he tweaked a nerve in her neck, and all fell into darkness.

**

The soft, sweet-smelling Earth woman fell slack in his embrace and Vegeta drew her close, nostrils flaring to catch that elusive, smolderingly familiar scent of lilac and honey wafting from her skin. Long blue hair spilled over his arm and the prince wondered at its silky texture. Then, abruptly reminded that he was not alone, he unpinned his cape from his shoulders and wrapped the woman in it. Had she not been so irate, the thin-skinned woman would have been shivering in the chill of Planet Vegeta’s nights.

 

“Sansai,” he said, not taking his eyes from the woman’s face. Beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful. And his.

 

“Yes, my prince?”  

 

Vegeta held out the limp form of the woman, so frail and slender in his arms. Sansai carefully accepted Vegeta’s burden, her black eyes intent upon his face. Inwardly, Vegeta grimaced. Despite his carefully cultivated brusqueness, the perceptive second class female had noticed his tender touch.

 

“Take her to the Royal Suite. Give her the rooms adjacent to mine and watch over her.”

 

Sansai scowled, obviously dying to stay. Vegeta glared at her, violently wishing he had not sent Kakkarot on patrol. He wanted very much to beat the hell out of something, if only to forget the small, cool hand resting over his heart, the blue eyes as deep as an ocean, whispering a siren’s call, luring him in. Sensing his perilous control on his temper, Sansai merely murmured a word of assent and swept from the room, the blue Earth woman cradled to her chest.

 

Vegeta stalked to back to his father’s throne and sat, fingers drumming a quick tattoo on the stone arm.

 

“Has the woman’s presence here changed what is before us, Seer? Is the Ice Clan still due to attack Shekhal?”

 

Bardock pushed off from the pillar he leaned against and approached Vegeta, his hard black eyes intent.

 

“She is important, my Prince. For Planet Vegeta, for her own world, for you.” Vegeta tensed, glaring at the older Saiyan. His cryptic answers drove Vegeta mad, especially when he knew Bardock was hiding something.

 

“What will she do? Mate or no, if she threatens Planet Vegeta, I will kill her myself.” He hissed through clenched teeth, even as something within his chest tightened at the thought of smothering the light in those blue eyes. Bardock’s gaze assessed him critically and Vegeta frowned. Had he been anyone else, he would have struck him for such insolence.

 

“No one doubts your commitment to our people, my Prince, but what she will do is her own choice. We need her.”

 

Vegeta exhaled a slow breath through his nose. The prince picked up his half-empty chalice of Rhenish wine and drained it. As he did so, the woman’s scent wafted around him. That he allowed such a screeching, low-born wench to touch him galled his pride as did the fact that he needed the help of her weakling people.

 

“This conversation does not leave this room, Bardock, Raditz.” Both gave their pledges of silence.

 

“Leave me,” Vegeta snapped, waving a terse hand in dismissal.

 

Their footsteps echoed on the smooth gold and black tiles of the throne room. As the father and son took their leave, Vegeta noticed the slightest of tremors in his hand. He fisted the errant appendage angrily, slamming it onto the arm of the throne. 

 The woman’s presence here, on the eve of what could be the deciding battle in the cat-and-mouse game the two galactic powers, was decidedly disconcerting.

More so that he remembered her.

 

All that had been set in the world had changed upon the installment of the Seer. Tomes had been written cataloguing the tumultuous relationship between the Saiyan people and the Ice Clan. But in the time of Vegeta’s great-grandsire, a profitable deal had been struck between them: in exchange for the technology needed to further the formation of a civilized race, the Saiyans agreed to use their fighting prowess to purge errant planets. As with everything else, his passionate people had become very talented at what they did. Soon, the entire galaxy was reined in under the hands of one of the Ice Clan, thanks to Saiyan muscle.

 

It had changed when Bardock, a lowly third class soldier, had been sent to purge Kannassa and been given the Gift. Vegeta had often wondered how he had managed to get an audience with the king and what he had said to convince him of the impending danger of fostering his newborn son with Frieza. Knowing Bardock, something sufficiently shocking and persuasive.

 

History had changed.

 

King Vegeta had abruptly severed all ties with the Ice Clan, and, beset by rebellion on all sides and internal squabbles, no retribution was paid. Over the next twenty years, the Saiyan Empire exploded. Vassal planets flocked to their call, knowing that if not justice, then at least they would be less exploited with the Saiyans than with the Ice Clan. Any planets that were foolish enough to resist or proclaimed loyalty to their lizard master, were quickly brought to heel and their planet used as a Saiyan colony. Infant purging expulsions ceased and Saiyan young were kept close to fight alongside their sires.

 

Vegeta had grown to adulthood in this new and strange order, where cultures intermingled, where Saiyan children learned of the customs and laws of other races, and Saiyan families fought as squads. Since the time he could stand, Vegeta knew that he had the power within him to destroy most of the adults around him with minimal effort. By the time he was old enough to enter the _sel’tek,_ many became all.

All save for his father.

Nappa and the others who remembered the old ways were outraged by the changes of society at large, more so by the almost blasphemous affection spawning between the king and the powerful young prince, the Legendary reborn. Prince Vegeta had nearly killed Nappa when he said as much and the murmurs stopped.

 

His father and Bardock had been off-planet when the attack came. Without warning or declaration of intent, Frieza’s own ship had descended upon Planet Vegeta. Vegeta paused at the carved wall depicting the scene. At twenty-three, he had been renowned as a tactician, a keen fighter in both mind and spirit. But he remembered the feeling of inadequacy, of terror at the sight of the monstrous ship approaching his beloved planet.

 

It passed in a moment and he was blasting up to meet Frieza, ablaze with fury and power. Vegeta closed his eyes, the monster’s face emblazoned in his mind, the black, feminine lips turned up in a subtly mocking smirk, the red eyes bored, the muscular reptilian tail swinging idly. The Elites had gathered around Vegeta in formation, with Bardock’s sons Raditz and Kakkarot at his flank.

 

No one remembered who threw the first blast, but it was Dodoria, Frieza’s bloated pink second lieutenant, who fell first. Wave after wave of Frieza’s soldiers were torn to pieces in front of him while he only smiled, his eyes locked with Vegeta’s. Then, almost lazily, Frieza lifted one white hand and blew half of Vegeta’s guard to Hell. Vegeta snarled, remembering. The bastard had only been toying with them, playing on their fear. Enraged beyond reason with power ebbing through every cell of his body, Vegeta had lunged with a raw cry, shining like a star. He savored the memory of the monster’s face; red eyes widened in shock as Vegeta’s fist slammed into his cheek and shattered the bones.

After that, he had no memory.

 

Nappa had told him that Frieza had broken his back with one blow of his tail, and three of the Ginyu force had smote him pointblank with blasts strong enough to destroy the planet. Kakkarot had managed to mark Burter, but a massive blast caught him and both fell unconscious. Frieza’s men had taken their bleeding master and beat a hasty retreat. As Vegeta lay comatose, it was as if he lived a whole other life.

 

It was him: Prince Vegeta the twenty-ninth, but it wasn’t at the same time. He saw in snippets of emotion and color and memory, Planet Vegeta’s destruction, his years in service to Frieza, and then his mission to Earth, Kakkarot, believing himself Earthling and defeating him battle, the reluctant alliance on Namek and . . . and the woman.

At the crux of it all, there she was radiant and fiery and beautiful.

They had spawned a brat together, a Saiyan prince with blue eyes and purple hair. Then he had faced the androids in battle and . . . died. Gods, he remembered everything.

That had been fifteen years ago.

 

When he woke from his stint in the regen tank, he found Kakkarot changed as well. Vegeta knew that he had seen memories of another life, a life where he became the man-child protector of a backwater planet with no knowledge of his heritage. And _he_ , the brain-damaged spawn of a third class soldier, had attained the status of the Legendary _before_ Vegeta! The prince hissed, his anger sweltering to dangerous levels. Though it had happened in another life, Vegeta still despised Kakkarot for it, and strove harder than ever to attain his birthright.

 

He would be the Super Saiyan and no other!

 

The war continued. Fifteen years of raids and sneaking guerilla tactics gnawed away at the Ice Clan’s arrogance. The Saiyan Empire had a slight technical advantage, with mastertechs working night and day to protect Planet Vegeta and her vassal worlds. The blackout made by the woman’s machine had thrown them all into a frenzy. The entire Saiyan army had been on alert until Sansai’s report.

 

“Damn Bardock,” Vegeta hissed, “he could have warned me the woman was coming!”

 

Gods, every thought but her had been swept from his brain when he saw her face. He forgot the impending strike on Shekhal, one of Frieza’s strategic strongholds and a planet-wide munitions factory that the Saiyans had taken and held tenuously for the past six months.

He only saw her.

 

Enraptured by her beauty, her wrenching grief at his suffering under Frieza, the gentleness of her touch, Vegeta only belated realized they weren’t alone. The prince had tried his damnedest to ignore her throughout his exchange with Bardock, but to have the lover that haunted his dreams warm and alive and _here_ was too much. It vexed him that the Seer had seen her face in his visions; it was almost adulterous to him.

 

Every muscle had gone taut when she touched him again and he struggled to contain his nearly violent reaction to this frail Earth woman. It was dismally pathetic that he, a prince of Saiyans would pine for a lowly blue-haired, foreign woman’s touch. And like a moonstruck fool, he had grasped at reasons for her to stay when she demanded her ship, if only to keep her here. She had screeched loud enough to pain his sharp hearing. Vegeta smirked. The memories of his other-life had been mute; he hadn’t known the sound of her voice, or even her name.

 

“Bulma,” he whispered, tasting the syllables.

As if an invocation, his brain was assaulted by a thousand images and sensations: the scent of her hair, the taste of her skin, the sweet eagerness of her embrace.

Vegeta wanted her and very badly. 

But instead of hastening to his rooms where she lay innocently sleeping, he stalked toward the training grounds reached his consciousness out to Kakkarot with all the gentleness of a fiery meteor as he did so.

 

 _Kakkarot!_  

 

Vegeta received the mental picture of Kakkarot slamming into one of the palace turrets by accident, distracted by the prince’s telepathic shout. He snickered both aloud and in his mind as Kakkarot excavated himself from the crater he landed in, holding his forehead.

 

 _Ow, Vegeta! What’s up?_ Another galling side-effect of their change, the idiot no longer addressed him by his title.

 

 _Get over here, third class. I need something to pummel_. Kakkarot’s thoughts undulated from mildly annoyed to brightly optimistic.

 

 _So you met Bulma? Isn’t she pretty?_ Vegeta’s possessive snarl surprised even him.

 

 _How the hell do you know her name?_ His confusion and amusement infuriated Vegeta.

 

 _We met in the hallway while she was on her way to talk to you. She called me Goku. I think . . . I think that was my name in the other place._ Vegeta frowned. They rarely spoke of their shared recollection of lives they had never led, but an intangible, telepathic bond formed between them, stronger than was normal.

 

 _She’s mine, Kakkarot. In her time she was my mate and in this one she is under my protection. Don’t forget that, third class. And Bardock says she is important to our cause._ Kakkarot shrugged, taking his sweet time in finding his way to the training grounds.

 

 _Listening to Father is always a good idea. Besides, Bulma doesn’t interest me that way._ Vegeta folded his arms over his chest, scanning the complex, waiting for the familiar disarray of spiky hair to silhouette the faint starlight.

 

_Humph, good. But you make it too obvious_ _. Everyone knows you’re still slavering like a moonstruck fool over Sansai. After three years it’s time to move on, Kakkarot, aim for someone in your league. Take . . . Haku for example._

 

At Kakkarot’s disgusted groan, Vegeta cackled evilly. Haku was one of the third class on the guard who had taken a fancy to Kakkarot and never failed to wrap her tail around his wrist or throw friendly insults his way. This would have been a triumph for Kakkarot except for the fact that Haku had all of three teeth left in her head, was as stocky and muscular as a shorter version of Raditz, and had enough facial hair to put Nappa’s mustache to shame.

 

His words must have triggered Kakkarot’s temper, for his flew the rest of the distance and the two began their spar without further preamble under Planet Vegeta’s star-spattered sky. 


	8. Complicated

Vegeta watched Sansai fume and rant within herself, fighting a chuckle. Preparations were being made for his squad to leave for Shekhal with Raditz in command.

Except for Sansai.

Both the king and prince agreed that Planet Vegeta could not be left unguarded, even with the layers upon layers of cloaks and defensive systems, so Prince Vegeta too must sit out the strike of Shekhal. His irritation for missing such a good fight was soothed by Sansai’s displeasure. He had made the announcement in front of court, and Vegeta had watched her fists clench and her ki bloom in delighted amusement.

 

Even now, as the Council droned on and on in front of him, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Kakkarot approached her to deliver Vegeta’s message. Sansai, stewing between her cousin Broly and her uncle Paragus, glared up at the older Saiyan. Vegeta frowned at Broly’s erratic spike in ki. The slender giant tensed, as if ready to tear Kakkarot’s throat out. Vegeta narrowed his eyes. There was something about the boy that made his skin crawl. Even as the anger drained from his face, replaced by dumb stoicism, Vegeta felt an instinctive foreboding. Broly and his father piqued some latent instinct, and Vegeta had long ago learned to trust what his gut told him. He made a mental note to keep an eye on those two, and have Raditz strictly guard them on the strike.

 

Kakkarot was brave enough to lay a hand on Sansai’s arm, bending down to whisper Vegeta’s message into her ear.

The fool.

They were both fools: Sansai for not realizing Kakkarot’s painfully obvious affection and Kakkarot for aiming too high. Sansai’s parents had both been warriors of good standing, heroes who had given their lives to protect Planet Vegeta when Frieza had attacked all those years ago. With an irritable lash of tail, Sansai followed Kakkarot into the room adjacent to the throne room, used for private meetings.

 

As soon as the Council dispersed after what seemed like hours of dithering, Vegeta burst into the room to find Kakkarot stuffing his face, and Sansai staring broodingly out the window. Vegeta snorted.

Petulant youngling.

Upon his entry, she immediately knelt and saluted. Points over Kakkarot, who only waved the leg of the mountain turkey he was gnawing on.

 

Vegeta availed himself to the food as well, not even acknowledging Sansai’s presence as he ate his second breakfast. He could hear the muted gurgle of Sansai’s stomach and decided she had suffered enough. A quick glance in her direction revealed she had not risen from her genuflect, waiting for Vegeta’s signal to rise.

Good girl.

 

“Say whatever words are stuck in your throat, Sansai, before you choke on them.”  Still kneeling, eyes riveted to the floor, she growled, “I have but one question to ask of you, Sire.”

 

“Uh oh, Vegeta. She’s really mad,” Kakkarot said, his words garbled by the food lolling around in his mouth. Vegeta snarled in disgust even as he smirked inwardly. Sansai’s speech always grew more formal when she was angry.

 

“Close your mouth, third class. I have no desire to see your half-masticated food.” Kakkarot stuck out his tongue childishly and narrowly dodged Vegeta’s short-tempered swipe.

 

“Speak.” Vegeta commanded Sansai.

 

“Why am I being detained here while my squad goes out to war?” she asked, stilted in her fury.

 

“I have assigned you to guarding the Earth woman. You’re to make sure she does what she’s told.” Vegeta said, eyes drilling into Sansai’s bent head. Did the brat not realize the honor he bestowed upon her? Slowly, she lifted her eyes to Vegeta’s.

 

“But Sire, is there not--”

 

“I thought you only had one question.” A flicker of humor darted across her face and she lifted a brow. Vegeta waved a hand and she rose.

 

“My Prince, are you . . . are you assigning me to this detail because I am a woman?” Vegeta frowned, truly taken aback by her words. A furtive glance at Kakkarot found the fool listening attentively. He, after all, would follow his brother and the rest of the squad to Shekhal and his heart was soft enough to worry for Sansai even when she stood in the safety of Planet Vegeta’s shadow.

 

“No, soldier. I would not dishonor your strength or your courage in such a way. You are a powerful warrior in your own right in a time when the blood of warriors is more precious than gold. No misbegotten notion of chivalry would prevent me from sending you into battle as is your birthright. But I give you the honor of protecting the woman who will be instrumental in our success and my own mate from another time. I would only entrust such a task to a warrior bound to me by the _mera’jah_.” As he spoke, Sansai drew herself up; her black eyes alight with pride and respect.

                                                                                   

“Thank you, my Prince. I will not fail you. I will protect her with my life.”

**

 

Red light bloomed over her closed eyelids and Bulma watched the idly moving ochre and amber patterns. Her senses slowly wakened, and she heard the bell-like tinkle of crystal, porcelain and a muted ripping sound. She stirred in the warm pocket of silky sheets, stretching languorously. Kami, it was as if the past fifteen years hadn’t happened and Momma was bustling around, bringing Bulma breakfast in bed.

 

Finally, grudging the morning its light as she always had, Bulma cracked open one eye. Colors exploded before her eyes, and she blinked at the golden sun blazing through the skylights. She lay in a massive bed, the frame set with glittering gold stones and resting on a raised marble pedestal. The room was as large as a whole floor at Capsule Corp, with a large table to one side as well as a strange crystal wall that she guessed was like a TV. Bulma sat up sharply with a gasp, only to lean back onto one elbow as pain throbbed through her head. Even after a full night’s sleep, her brain felt drained, as if she had burned the midnight oil working.

 

Her eyes wandered back to the table, and the source of the noises. She found Sansai methodically destroying the massive meal set before her, the ripping sound being her teeth as she tore meat from a bone the size of a football. As if responding to her thoughts, Sansai twisted in her seat and waved the leg in greeting.

 

“Good morning, my lady. I hope you don’t mind,” she muttered as she chewed, “Prince Vegeta sent food about half an hour ago and I didn’t want it to go to waste . . .”

 

Bulma chuckled, floundering across the large, soft bed. The sheets tangled around her legs and she cursed under her breath, yanking herself free. Sansai watched her progress with a wry smirk. Bulma glared at her through narrowed eyes and rubbed the sleep from her face. Sansai gestured to the ornate chair opposite her.

 

“Please sit. You must be starving.”  

 

Bulma padded around the table and sat, the soft carpet as thick as fur tickling the soles of her feet. Eyeing the spread, Bulma cringed despite her hunger. Unfamiliar smells assaulted her nostrils and the vibrant colors and consistencies looked unnatural. Her stomach turned as she watched Sansai tear a pulsing piece of red flesh from bone.

 

“They brought this all for me? Humans don’t eat nearly as much as Saiyans, Sansai.” Bulma said, gingerly taking a piece of what looked like bread. A hesitant bite revealed it to be plant-like in nature and relatively bland in taste.

 

Sansai’s dark brows drew together and she scrutinized Bulma’s form. Grease shone on her lips and in the strong light Bulma noticed an almost invisible scar under her left eyebrow that curved around her eye. With a careless flick, Sansai nudged a quivering bowl of a thick green substance towards Bulma.

 

“You could use some meat on your bones, my lady. Eat this, it is very good.”

 

 Bulma wrinkled her nose, but dipped the corner of her ‘bread’ into the green Jell-o. Sansai paused her gorging to watch with an inscrutable expression. The Jell-o stuff was cool and slimy and slightly chewy, but with a taste caught somewhere between mint and rosemary.

 

“This isn’t that bad,” she murmured, taking another larger bite, “what is it?”  Sansai returned to her eating.

 

“Good. It’s a traditional Saiyan dish called _tarleq_. It’s made from the jellied intestines of an herbivorous tree snake. Very nutritious.” Bulma’s stomach rebelled.

 

“Intestine?” she repeated, her own writhing in disgust. Sansai wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, downing a long swig of water before continuing on, unperturbed.

 

“Yes. This particular species of tree snake has a very slow digestive process. The intestinal juices preserve the basic components of the nutrients during the preparation process.” Some small part of Bulma’s mind wondered how many other Saiyans knew the basics of nutrition and cooking. Sansai seemed remarkably well-educated given class and occupation. Her attention returned to her churning stomach and she stared at the half-eaten brown slice in her hands.

 

“And this?” she asked bravely. Sansai shrugged.

 

“That’s basically what you Earthlings call bread, made from ground grains. I read up on some of the files in the archives last night, they’re very old, from Prince Vegeta’s grandsire’s time. We call it _y’far_. Do you not remember, my lady?” there was a strange note of disappointment in her voice and Bulma forgot her internal discomfort.

 

“I must have calibrated it wrong. I thought Earthling physiology would be similar to a Saiyan’s . . .” Sansai muttered, her tail swaying thoughtfully side to side. Bulma reached across the table and grabbed her wrist, fear beginning to flicker down her spine.

 

“Sansai, what are you talking about? And what’s this ‘my lady’ business?” Color flooded Sansai’s cheeks and her black eyes flickered. Bulma stared dumbly at her blush.

 

“You are Prince Vegeta’s mate. Whether on this plane or another, it doesn’t matter to me, I will afford you the same respect I would any of the royal line. You needn’t be afraid; I only wanted to help you adjust to life on Planet Vegeta . . .”

 

“Sansai. What. Did. You. Do?” Bulma said evenly, squeezing the captive wrist with all her feeble strength. The threatening tone only served to amuse the Saiyan and Bulma resisted the urge to punch her. It would only serve to piss her off even more and—judging from past experience with Goku and Vegeta—probably break her hand.

 

“I tried to program the domestic computer to ‘download,’ so to speak, information into your brain. Most of our cubs are programmed with similar information while they incubate: homeworld customs, class laws, even a few rudimentary defense techniques. With the brilliant parameters of your brain, I was able to load more than I thought I could with the amount of time you were asleep.  You _should_ be able to understand and speak Saiyago, as well as remember the basic history of the past thirty years or so, since the formation of the Empire. But I suppose I programmed it wrong. Solan said there were remarkable compatibilities between the Earthling and Saiyan . . .”

 

Now the headache made sense.

 

Bulma found herself caught between irritation and affection. She had, after all, only been trying to help. Pursing her lips, she searched her mind for any new knowledge. When she found none, she sifted through the scattered memories and thoughts she had had the previous day, most centered on Vegeta. With a soft gasp, she found knowledge, words whizzing through her brain as if printed on a page before her eyes.

 

“ _Koui edam_ ,” she said in Saiyago. ‘I remember.’ A radiant smile broke out on Sansai’s face, all her sharp white teeth exposed.

 

“Excellent. The older ones often speak our ancient tongue when they want to keep something secret. I’ve found it can be a very useful means of learning vital information.” Bulma nodded, seeing the sense in it.

 

“I understand. But know this, youngling, if you ever attempt to subliminally brainwash me again, I will make a weapon that forces you to spend the rest of your life thinking you are a five year old Earthling girl.” The guttural formality of the ancient Saiyan tongue was refreshing, as was the look of respect flitting across Sansai’s stoic face.

 

“Yes, my lady.”

 

“Bulma, please.”

 

Sansai grinned.

 

“Yes, my lady Bulma.”

 

Bulma shook her head.

 

“You’re impossible.” 

 

Bulma mustered the courage to eat, carefully avoiding anything not of vegetarian origin. She wasn’t brave enough to eat the flesh of alien animals yet. Sansai continued on unabated until there was nothing but neat stacks of soiled dishes and scrupulously picked bones. A playful glint shone in her eyes and Bulma narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

 

“Shall I tell the cooks of your eating habits? Or would you mind feeding a lowly second class? The slops they serve in the barracks are enough to turn even Kakkarot’s stomach.”

 

Bulma chuckled.

 

“No Sansai. I’d appreciate the company. So this is where I’ll be staying? Is this . . . is this Vegeta’s room?” Sansai covered her mouth to smother a soft, ladylike belch. Clearing her throat, she said, “Yes and no. Yes, it belongs to him and is his to do with what he pleases, but no, this is not the room where he sleeps. It’s too small.” Bulma cast a speculating eye over the spacious room. Small, huh?

 

Bulma flicked her gaze over Sansai. Even slouched in the chair, dressed casually in loose black pants and a red tank top with her tail curled idly around her waist and her spiky hair forced into a low ponytail, she had the alert air of a soldier. Taut, lean and strong, she was every inch the warrior. Why was she here, then? A bodyguard? A gaoler? _I don’t respond well to captivity. Vegeta is in for a rude surprise if he tries to keep me here._

 

“Where is my ship? You swore on your honor you would return it to me, Sansai.”

 

Muscles rippled minutely under her olive skin and her eyelids tensed. Black eyes guarded, she replied, “I did indeed, my lady Bulma. And I will do so as soon as Prince Vegeta gives me leave.” She leaned forward earnestly, eyes bright with fervor.

 

“You have seen our history. We are at war with Frieza. We cannot allow a mastertech such as yourself slip away. The gods sent you here to help us. For my planet, for the entire galaxy, I ask you for your help. Prince Vegeta is our hope, the Legendary reborn. With your help, he can ascend and we can win this war.” Refusing to be moved by her passionate plea, Bulma focused on Trunks’ face floating in the regen tank. For him, she would tear apart heaven and earth.

 

“I have no choice, do I? You will hold me captive here until I comply.” Sansai did not confirm or deny her words.

 

“We need you. Whether those fools on the Council realize it or not, we need you,” she said simply.

 

“What do you mean, ‘those fools on the Council’?” Bulma asked. Had she made enemies already? Gods, she wasn’t supposed to be here! What had gone so horribly wrong? Sansai frowned, obviously regretting having said anything.

 

“When I made my report to Prince Vegeta yesterday, the Council of Elders was present. Prejudiced, xenophobic lot, every one of them. They hate the Seer because he is third class and wields more influence than they. They hate me and Broly because they think we usurped the positions of their sons and daughters on Prince Vegeta’s squad. They are even stupid enough to hate Prince Vegeta, the Legendary reborn, because he allows these things. Damned _fools_!” as she spoke, Sansai rose and paced back and forth, violently gesticulating, a faint glow of ki flickering around her. Mastering her passion with a shudder, she turned back to Bulma.

 

“You have to understand, my lady Bulma, fifty years ago; we were slaves to Frieza in all but name. Some profited greatly from it, especially of the Elite caste. Some fostered their sons as Frieza’s soldiers. It was thought to be a very high honor. Now . . .” she paused, considering.

 

“Now those who profited from Frieza’s reign over us are on the Council of Elders and the fostered sons are commanders in the army. I fear . . . I fear when this conflict is over, Planet Vegeta will implode on itself. Having you here complicates things.”

 

Sansai raked her hand through her hair, breaking the tie. Rebelliously, her hair rebounded into its original shape, a gleaming blue-black showering down over her strong shoulders. Bulma chewed on her lower lip, drumming her fingers against the table as she turned Sansai’s words over and over in her head. Crossly, Bulma tossed her heavy mane of hair back and moved to adjust the loose shirt she wore back upon her shoulder when Sansai cried out. Bulma flinched, staring wild-eyed at Sansai. A look of stunned horror was painted on her face, followed quickly by crippling fear. Bulma leapt from her seat, closing the distance between them.

 

“What _is_ it, Sansai? What’s wrong?” Still, the Saiyan woman stood stock still as if shot through the heart. Bulma moved to grasp her shoulders when she came to life, flinching away from her touch. Eyes half-mad, Sansai quivered like frightened wild horse.

 

“What’s _wrong_? _That’s_ what’s wrong! Vegar save us!” she exclaimed, pointing to the base of Bulma’s neck. To the small, round scar Vegeta had left upon her neck the night they had first made love. Bulma clapped a hand over it protectively.

 

“What is it?” she asked in a small voice.  A bray of shaken, mirthless laughter tore from Sansai’s throat.

 

“You don’t know? How can you not know?” she demanded, tanned face drained of color. Bulma’s fear evaporated. Drilling one slender finger into Sansai’s chest, she hissed, “Well I’m sorry, you idiot Saiyan, but you must have forgotten to mention it in the little brainwashing session you subjected me to!”

 

That seemed to snap Sansai out of it. With deliberate gentleness, she grasped Bulma’s shoulders and led her back to sit at the table. Sansai grabbed Bulma’s hands between her own and dropped to her knees before her. The blank look hardened into an expression of such fierce determination that Bulma pitied the one who stood in her way.

 

“It doesn’t matter, my lady. We will keep it secret. Keep it hidden. But if anyone dares to come after you, I will guard you with every ounce of ki in me. I will die before I let them harm you!” unnerved by the passionate vow, Bulma felt her hands begin to shake under the warm, callused grip of Sansai’s. Die? Who would want to kill her?

 _What the hell did the scar mean?_  

 

“ _Who_ , Sansai? Who would want to kill me? What does--” Sansai cursed fluently in several alien dialects Bulma didn’t recognize.

 

“He didn’t tell you anything? It’s a bonding scar, my lady. For Saiyans . . . for Saiyans l--love is something very private,” she stuttered out the word, heat flooding her face.

 

“To the bone, to the heart, we are a warrior race. And to balance out our warlike nature, the gods gave us the bond. Mates mark each other’s bodies with a scar, and thus bind themselves in body and mind to their partners. It is unbreakable, even by death.” The tremors increased.

 _Oh Vegeta . . . I didn’t understand . . . I didn’t know what I had . . ._       

 

“Prince Vegeta marked you as his bonded mate in your time. He marked you, and yet you remained unaware of it . . .” Sansai was shaking her head.

 

“Now things are very, very complicated.” 

 

“What do you mean?” Bulma asked. She felt so numb. All his emotions, the vague feeling of his presence in the back of her mind, her ghostly visitor . . . all because she was bonded. He had performed a sacred ritual of love and she hadn’t even known! Sansai’s snort of dry laughter drew her from her spiraling thoughts. She smirked without mirth, her eyes like stones of obsidian.

 

“Isn’t it enough that Prince Vegeta took a foreign mate in another time? Enough that his heir is a half-breed? Now, you are his _bonded_ mate? If the Council objected to your presence before, now every one of them will try and kill you themselves. For a Saiyan—a son of our Royal House!—to bond with a _tujet,_ an outsider, a foreigner, it’s . . . it’s an abomination.”

 

Bulma thought she took this judgment of death on her very existence rather well.

She did not scream or even cry.

She only fainted.

**

“What happened?” Vegeta demanded, bursting into the Royal Suite where the Earth woman was staying. His eyes raked over her inert form, cradled in Sansai’s arms. Finding no obvious injury, he lifted his gaze to Sansai. The Saiyan girl was trembling. What the hell had frightened her? Vegeta extended his senses in every direction. Grazing over the kis around him, Vegeta found no disturbance save for Kakkarot, whizzing through the halls towards Sansai’s distressed ki signature.

 

Slowly, carefully, Sansai returned to Earth woman to the bed.

 

“It was only a faint, Sire. She will come around in a minute.”

 

Vegeta snorted in disbelief. Something had scared Sansai, a stalwart soldier who had not so much as flinched while facing the Ginyu force at Vegeta’s back several years before. She had killed Guldo with her own hand. Kakkarot appeared in the doorway, dressed in fresh armor. The trembling in Sansai’s limbs ceased and her face hardened.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in a ship with Broly, Kakkarot?” she asked, glowering with jealousy.

 

Vegeta watched the simple-minded soldier out of the corner of his eye. As Vegeta had, he carefully took note of Sansai’s appearance and saw through her thin veil of equanimity. Also like Vegeta, he looked deeply disturbed by her apparent fear. In answer to her question, he laughed gaily, as carefree as a young boy.

 

“I’d rather eat nothing but mud for the rest of my life than share a pod with Broly. No, I’m sharing a pod with Raditz. Is uh, is something wrong, Sansai?”

 

Vegeta caught the flicker of emotion in her eyes as well as the subtle shift of her body back towards the woman lying lifeless on the bed.

 

“It is a private matter, Kakkarot. I’d like to speak to the prince alone.” At Kakkarot’s wounded look, she closed the distance between them, laying a hand on his chest in uncharacteristic affection. _Clever girl,_ he thought.

 

“Please,” she whispered in a gentler tone.

 

And the idiot was putty in her hands. His face smooth and eyes tender, he could only obey. Vegeta grit his teeth at the disgusting display, thoroughly revolted with Kakkarot’s malleability. If loving a woman ever did that to him, Vegeta decided, he would gladly kill himself to save face from such a dishonor. 

 

As Kakkarot turned to leave, Sansai called after him, “Live strong.” With a soft smile for her Kakkarot answered with the traditional ending, “And fight well.”  When the fool had taken his leave, Vegeta fixed his gaze on Sansai’s face, scrutinizing every angle. With gruff gentleness, Vegeta lightly chucked her chin.

 

“What’s this about?”  Faltering as she never had before, Sansai dropped his gaze. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she sighed. She sat on the edge of the bed and brushed away tendrils of the woman’s blue hair.

 

“What are you--” he began, then Vegeta’s eyes latched onto the small scar, whitened with age, almost invisible at the base of the Earth woman’s throat. Blood drained from his face, the strength sighed from his limbs as memory pierced his brain.

 

 

 

_Her skin was as soft as white velvet under his lips, pulsing with the incensed rate of her heart. Her fingernails dug red crescents into his shoulders as he ploughed into her, driven mad by her clasp on him. Her release ravaged her again, her hoarse voice rippling warm breath over his face. Vegeta smiled against her skin, tasting the tang of sweat. She had asked for this, and he had repaid her in spades. No other lover would do for her now, her body was his. Moved by instinct and something so deep he didn’t even admit it to himself, Vegeta sank his sharp canines into her throat, lapping her sweet blood even as his release tore through him. A portion of his energy ebbed from him and he felt her shudder against him. As the haze of passion receded, one thought branded deep into his mind and soul._

_What have you done?_

 

Vegeta returned to himself at the sound of Sansai’s panicked voice. His eyes flashed open to find Sansai leaning anxiously over him, her glowing white palm at his throat, pumping him full of her energy.

 

“Sansai,” he said as calmly as he could manage, “Get off me. Now.” The deadly softness of his words were warning enough for her and she leapt off.

 

“Forgive me, my Prince. I thought . . . you were just lying there . . .”

 

“So you thought I’d just keeled over from the shock? What kind of weakling do you think I am?” he roared, his body humming with the influx of energy. _Any more and she would have fainted,_ he thought, critically judging her pallor. With a clean just blow, he repaid her for breaking royal protocol, punching her in the gut.

 

“You bastard, she was just trying to help you! What the hell is the matter with you?”

 

The Earth woman was suddenly an inch from him, drilling a finger into his chestplate. The sight of her blue eyes alight with fury and heaving bosom, coupled with the memory of rutting with her, caused a painful, rending stab of lust to ripple through his belly. It was all he could do not to shove her back onto the bed and reenact the scene in his head.

 

“My lady Bulma,” Sansai gasped from where she knelt doubled over on the floor, holding up a hand to still the rabid Earth woman. She stopped mid-sentence and glared murder at Vegeta.

 

“Shut up, Sansai. Whatever arrogant justification for abuse you have on this planet is idiotic. Probably based on the sanctity of the Legendary’s paper skin?” she snarled scathingly. A chortle of laughter lodged in his throat and he choked it down.

 

“Something along those lines,” he said coolly, “if you’d shut up long enough to listen, you foul-mouthed harpy, you might learn something.” The woman’s full mouth flattened into a thin line, her eyes spat sparks. The primal side of him found her anger irresistibly arousing.

 

“Fine, _Highness._ Be my guest.”

 

A violent sweep of her hand gestured her assent, a hair below rudeness. Smirking now, he cast a glance at Sansai who now leaned against the table with her arms crossed, amused by the battle of wills. Mimicking her posture, Vegeta began, “Sansai is a second class soldier. While I have graced her with the honor of being on my squad, her class is hers until death. Under the old law, I have every right to kill her for touching me. And while she was trying to _help_ me,” Vegeta glared at the Earth woman who looked as if she wanted to say something, “Her help was unneeded and unwanted. The tap I gave her was hardly abuse.”

 

“I am Saiyan, my lady. I can take a punch. Even if Prince Vegeta’s leaves a bruise. I’ll heal in an hour.”

 

“And as for any fool woman who would touch me without my permission,” he grasped her wrist, the slender bones as delicate as a bird’s. She tried to jerk away and he held fast, amused by her pathetically weak attempts. Their eyes met and held in a fiery clash.

 

“I would give her one warning,” Vegeta’s tone took on the timbre of honey and smoke, “One.” He was pleased to feel her heartbeat speed up, her breathing hitch, her eyes darken. She was as affected as he. The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

 

“The same goes for you, buddy. If you ever try to touch me without my permission, I’ll kick your balls up through the roof of your mouth.”

Her voice was husky and a little breathless. Vegeta shivered a little at the sound, a shiver of anticipation. He flirted with the idea of having her and found it undeniably pleasing.

 

Vegeta bared his teeth in a feral smile. The wench had spirit. They both knew she had no hope of overpowering him. And he would have bet his armor that Sansai hadn’t told her the Saiyan custom of trading insults while flirting. He released her, slowly, reluctantly. Inwardly he berated himself for his irrational desire for her. Memories of another time and place, memories of another life, burned a hole in his brain. Surely this attraction was only a byproduct of the imprinted memories . . . wasn’t it? He understood Sansai’s fear. His other self had bonded with her, and if anyone saw it and understood it for what it was, it would spell death for her.

 

“You will cover that at all times,” Vegeta commanded, gesturing vaguely toward the scar. He half-turned, remembering that his presence was required at the launch. His eyes met Sansai’s.

 

“Take her to Mastertech Zohan. She is never to go anywhere unescorted, even to the lavatory.” Her expression tightened as a soldier’s would when given an especially arduous or unpleasant task. Vegeta felt a faint twinge of empathy. She would have her hands full.

 

“Understood, Sire.”

 

“Wait one second, Vegeta! I’m not one of your servants to be ordered around!” Now Vegeta laughed.

 

“Have fun,” he said to Sansai and left the room with a swirl of red cape, the sound of her curses music in his ears.


	9. Shekhal

Mastertech Zohan eyed her with a mixture of repugnance and reluctant approval. Bulma had spent the last hour decoding complex algorithmic sequences to prove her worth. She showed him the buzz watch she’d used to zap Nappa and Zohan had only grunted and tossed it aside in disdain. Still brilliantly angry after her little encounter with Vegeta, Bulma was of half a mind to show him the capsulation technology, if only to wipe that smug little sneer off his face. Sansai’s presence at least, warm and steady behind Bulma’s right shoulder, engendered a shiver of frightened esteem in the squat, red-skinned tech.

 

Bulma broke off mid-sentence, a scathing reply to his thinly-veiled insult dying on her tongue as she watched the red glass eyepiece of his scouter shatter. With a cry, Zohan tore the scouter from over his pointed ear. His thinning white hair stuck out in all directions, like ruffled bird feathers. His indignant squawking only augmented the comparison. Bulma bit her lip to stifle a giggle. A glance at Sansai revealed a smug expression, complete with a Vegeta-smirk and a flick of tail.

 

“That’s enough tech talk for the day. If she has passed your inspection, Zohan, she has weapons to build.” The red-skinned man was shaking in his boots, staring at the remnants of his little toy in his hands.

 

“O—of course, Madame. B—Bulma is capable. She has my permission to use the lab and its tools as she wishes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to attend to.” He all but scurried off, disappearing with a swirl of white cape.   

 

 _Mastertech my ass,_ Bulma thought dryly, glad to see him go. They both knew he was outclassed.

 

“ _Permission._ I have permission to use his precious lab! Ha! I could take apart any little gadget in this place and put it back together in half the time he could!”

 

Bulma snorted and tugged at the high collar of the battlesuit top Sansai had all but forced over her head. The black fabric fit to her body like a second skin, yet felt as if she wore nothing at all. To cover the sensation, she had layered a Capsule Corp T-shirt. Her eyes fell on the broken glass of the scouter on the pristinely white floor. She turned to Sansai.

 

“How high is your power level? You busted that scouter without even powering up.” The smug expression remained and her tail flicked the broken glass contemptuously.  

 

“That scouter was a trinket Zohan used to track the creeping things he fawns over. Prince Vegeta’s resting power level would smash it if Zohan was within a mile of him. But I am strong. My power level is over ten thousand. Not bad for a second class female of my years.” _Not bad?_ Bulma thought incredulously, _Goku’s power level wasn’t that high until after he trained with King Kai for a year!_   At her agog stare, Sansai raised a brow.

 

“To put in perspective, Keyuka and Zuki hover around nine thousand five hundred. Nappa is about the same as me, a little higher, a fact which he never ceases to gloat about. Broly is over twelve thousand, and Raditz is the same as him. Kakkarot is the strongest of the Prince’s squad at fifteen thousand.”

 

“What about Vegeta?” Bulma asked anxiously, remembering all the sleepless nights when Vegeta beat himself to death trying to close the gap between him and Goku. Sansai smiled, the timbre of her warm, rough-wool voice suddenly hoarse with admiration.

 

“Prince Vegeta is higher than all of us put together. His resting power level is a hair over seventy five thousand.”

 

“Seventy five thousand!” she cried, “and what is Frieza’s? They’ve got to be close, right? I mean, how can--” at the dark look Bulma trailed off.

 

“I don’t know what it was in your time, my lady Bulma, but in this one, Frieza’s power is astronomical. One million, at least. And others of his clan are even stronger.”

 

“Others?” her voice quavered. She couldn’t easily imagine a family of mad, monstrously strong creatures like Frieza running around the galaxy. One tyrant was enough.

 

“Yes. The treaty that would have resulted in the destruction of Planet Vegeta was made between Vegeta the twenty-sixth and Frieza father, King Cold. The Ice Clan is like a plague, they linger on for centuries to kill and smother.”  Sansai cocked her head and spat on the floor in disgust. A brooding silence drifted between them. Changing tack, Bulma asked, “You seem very . . . um, well-versed in history and science, Sansai.” Her black eyes glittered with humor.

 

“You mean I seem smarter than the ones you’ve met? I suppose it’s due to my . . . eclectic education.” At her curious glance, Sansai sighed.

 

“You won’t work unless I tell you, right?” Bulma smiled smugly. Sansai took her leisure on one of the long counters, crossing her legs beneath her.

 

“That’s what I thought. Well, there’s not much to tell. I was born here, and both my parents were on the palace guard. I was three when they were killed defending Planet Vegeta. Orphans are given to next of kin, and mine were Paragus and his mate Cele. When I turned four, I entered the _sel’tek_ like all other Saiyan children. Since the formation of the Empire, Planet Vegeta had been undergoing radical changes. Now, Saiyan children were learning how to read, culture, law, things that would have been scoffed at a generation ago. So perhaps I seem smarter because I grew up in a world where learning was tolerated. But . . .” she shrugged.

 

“I was eight when Prince Vegeta saw me sparring with Broly. We were the most powerful of our _sel’tek_. Prince Vegeta was impressed by us and challenged us. Broly went first. Prince Vegeta had him on the ground in less in a minute. I lasted maybe three seconds.” Sansai shook her head. “I don’t know what he saw, but we were in the palace the next day, being trained alongside Elites. I developed a great passion for the old lore. My mother too, was a _kahntor_ , a keeper of songs.” 

 

“So you’re a poet?” Bulma asked and Sansai blushed and idly traced the gold tip on her boot.

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Oh, say something for me! I’d love to hear it!” Bulma exclaimed, surprised and pleased by her depth.

 

“As you wish.” She paused a moment, sleek brows drawn together. When she spoke, it was in the rough tones of Saiyago.

 

_“Mrothgul’s golden light encircled his brow, his black-maned head bleach’d_

_His eyes burned the green of fair Vegeta-sei’s moon, rife with righteous fury_

_The pow’r of worlds lay at his weeping palms, sunlight was his cloak_

_There he stood, the prince of gods, our Legendary king_

_And the ice cried out at his passing.”_     

 

 Silence filled the room.

 

“Those were the words of our forefathers upon the sight of King Vegeta the first. He saved us all from the Ice Clan.”

 

Bulma pondered her words. This war between the Saiyans and the Ice Clan would soon touch the entire galaxy, if it hadn’t already. Like it or not, Earth would be pulled into the mix, if only because Bulma herself had been born there and her genius and stories of her past was a curiosity. Bulma would have to choose a side. As much as she hated doing it against her will, she would have to uphold her end of the deal and build a damned tool or weapon for Vegeta. Besides, there was a part of her, larger than she wanted to put a finger on, that wanted Vegeta and Goku and Sansai to win the war they had put their whole lives into. She loved them regardless of the time they were born in.

They were hers.

But so was Trunks.

Every second she spent here lessened her chance of getting home and increased the chance of Trunks doing something stupid before she returned. Bulma fingered each of the capsules at her belt. There was a prototype of a new G.R. that she had been working on for Trunks. Surely that would appease Vegeta and he would give her the time machine. That is, if Vegeta was good on his word. But to give it to him, she would have to make the pretense of working on it, lest unanswerable questions surface on how it materialized out of nowhere. As she was debating through this with herself, she noticed that Sansai was watching her. The Saiyan warrior was loyal first to Vegeta and the throne. Did that oath of hers require her to report every single detail?  This would be tricky. She only hoped she could keep her wits about her long enough to return to her son.

**

The pod’s computer system woke him from cryo-sleep with a monotone female voice.

 

“Wake up Raditz, Kakkarot. Planetfall at Shekhal begins in T-minus five minutes. Commencing steam bath now.”

 

Warm, moist air caressed him, dewing into sticky droplets in his hair and face. Sweat and steam trickled in serpentine rivulets under his battlesuit and armor. Beside him, he felt his brother stir, the rebellious mane of black hair tickling his arm. Kakkarot stifled a yawn, pressing his shoulders back against the thinly padded wall.   _These damn pods were built for_ one _Saiyan, not two! And definitely not one as big and smelly as Raditz._

 

“Smelly, am I? You’re no picnic either, brat,” his brother’s rough voice held familiar tones of annoyance and amusement. Kakkarot glared sidelong at his brother, in no mood for playful ribbing.

 

“Keep your mind to yourself,” he snapped. The wide planes of his brother’s face tightened. Raditz’s tail floated up and tickled Kakkarot’s ear. The light itching sensation inside the shell of his sensitive ear was worse than a ko-deerfly buzzing in his face. Kakkarot swatted at it, but Raditz withdrew his tail before Kakkarot could do any damage. He growled at his older brother. The maddening fraternal habit never ceased to bother him.

 

“If you didn’t think so loud, little brother, I wouldn’t have to listen to you fantasize about rutting with Sansai.” Heat flooded Kakkarot’s face. Why was it so obvious to everyone but Sansai how he felt about her?

 

“Maybe by Moontime you’ll grow balls big enough to court her.” Abrupt fury welled within him and he snarled, cocking a fist to punch his face in.

 

“Stop goading him, Raditz! We need the boy sharp on the strike, not brooding over a would-be mate.” Keyuka’s bass voice rumbled across the comm link.

 

“Yeah, _Captain_ Raditz, the prince wants results. And Kakkarot, leave thoughts of Sansai in the pod. It’s time to work.” Zuki chimed in. Raditz frowned and muttered a terse apology.

 

Kakkarot accepted, peering through the purple glass on the front of the pod at Shekhal. The planet was nothing more than a disk of grey amidst the brightly blazing stars, a floating chunk of rock held in place by the gravitational force of the nearby red sun with a sparse atmosphere. What native flora and fauna that spawned here was hardy, if too sparse to form a sentient species. Situated on a treasure trove of ore and stone, it made a perfect place for the building of Frieza’s weapons and ships. It was said that when the Saiyans had managed to take it six months ago, Frieza had killed a battalion of his own soldiers in his frothing rage. Now, thanks to Father’s forewarning, Prince Vegeta’s squad and a dozen other squads were ready to reinforce the Saiyans on the ground.

 

As they traveled closer, Kakkarot could make out the jutting spires of mech factories through the swirling grey smog. Tiny bubbles of orange fire glowed against the bleak terrain of the planet, portals into the chaotic heat and effort of forges. Kakkarot stretched out his consciousness towards the planet and warm ki lights pricked his mind, a thousand strong. He smiled. Unless Frieza himself decided to arrive, the Saiyans could repel any force. According to Bardock, they had beaten out the attack by a few hours. _Just enough time to get something to eat!_ Kakkarot thought.  He and Raditz braced themselves against the resistance of the planet’s atmosphere on their descent.  

 

Through the blaze of fire surrounding the falling pod, Kakkarot watched with a familiar glee as the planet’s surface neared at incredible speed. From the window, he could see Keyuka and Zuki’s pod as well as Broly and Paragus’s tearing ahead of them. Nappa and the other Elites had already landed and were no doubt raiding the food supply out of spite. Since Kakkarot and Raditz were too large to strap themselves in, the landing jarred their heads together with a sickening meaty thud. Cursing and clutching his throbbing forehead, he staggered out of the pod to gales of rough laughter. Raditz had more difficulty unfolding his massive frame from the interior of the pod, and Kakkarot recognized the black look painted on his face that usually spelled a sound beating for whoever earned it. Glaring murder at his crew, he settled for verbal bashing.

 

“Shut up, you weakling sons of tail-less whores! We’ve got three hours until the strike. Keuyka, you and Zuki set up a parameter with Captain Toma’s forces. Broly, Paragus, you’re with me.”  Kakkarot swallowed his ire with his pride. Would they leave him behind like a weakling cub? As one they rose into the air. The sneer on Broly’s face was nearly too much for Kakkarot. _Why does he hate me so much? What did I do to him?_  he wondered.

 

“What will I do, _Captain_?” he snarled, daring his brother to leave him behind. Raditz only smirked. 

 

“Kakkarot, you can gather the pods. The base is---”

 

“I know where the base is! I’ve a scouter too!” Kakkarot tapped the green glass over his left eye. Raditz folded his arms over his massive chest.

 

“Very well then, _chuki_. We meet at the base in an hour.” Kakkarot growled as they flew off. _Chuki_ , Saiyago for a small, foolish child. He scowled at the tiny red dot of a sun hanging over him, throat tight with the lingering clouds of smog. The gravity of this planet was oppressive, constricting his breathing. Sickly sweet scents clogged his nostrils, scents of moist, decaying earth and the reek of harsh chemicals. He should have known. There had been friction between him and Raditz all his life, Raditz blamed him for the loss of their mother, who had died giving birth to Kakkarot off world, parsecs away from any passable medical facility.

 

The childish spars had deepened to something much more serious when Kakkarot was changed fifteen years ago. In another life, his son had been taken from him, kidnapped by Raditz. Kakkarot couldn’t forgive him for it, even though that future had been undone. No one knew of what he had seen except for Vegeta who had undergone a similar transformation. A bond of shared hardship had formed between them from the ashes of the rivalry of another life. Kakkarot had no desire to be the Legendary or to rule the Saiyan Empire; it was Vegeta’s birthright, not his. His mind worked simply, and court intrigues and politics confused him. The prince knew this, but still strove harder than ever to maintain the gulf between them.  

 

All Kakkarot wanted was the simple life of a soldier, with a woman and a couple of brats. Kakkarot’s irritation faded at the thought of Sansai. Strong and smart, beautiful and loyal, she was everything he ever wanted in a mate. _Maybe Raditz is right. I should court her in the Saiyan way,_ he thought as he heaved his and Raditz’s pod onto his shoulders. It was strange, his memories of the placid ways of Earth stirred some innate gentleness in his nature and he found some things utterly repugnant to him now: such as the savage nature of Moontime courting. Instead, Kakkarot gave her gifts and spent long hours watching her, absorbing every habit. Such overtures seemed to confuse her more than anything.

 

Vegeta was no help. Even before their change, he had been more interested in training than women. It was a running bet among the prince’s courtiers how long it would be before the prince found a mate, if ever. As a bachelor in his forty-second year, the chances grew even slimmer. Year after year, strong Saiyan women had been paraded in front of him and each was sent away with a terse dismissal. Desperate for the continuation of the royal line, the king changed tack. The next years were spent tracking down any species compatible with the Saiyans, the most beautiful of which were given to the prince as pleasure slaves. Insulted, Prince Vegeta had blasted them to Hell.

 

“But Bulma changed that,” Kakkarot said aloud, grunting as he heaved Broly’s pod onto the net he had cast on the ground with more force than was necessary. A loud crack reverberated through the smoke-clogged air and Kakkarot kicked the pod over to find the window shattered, purple glass stuck into the soft, sucking mud. A light layer of ash fell like snow from the sky and dusted everything in pale grey.

 

“Oops,” he muttered, entirely unrepentant. Knowing Broly, he’d probably go mad and attack, but he was stronger than Broly. That was the beginning and ending of all arguments to his people. His thoughts wandered back to Bulma and Vegeta. From his own misty Earth memories, Bulma had been like a sister to him and a valuable ally with all her gadgets. He made a mental note to ask her about the capsules she had used most often. But with Vegeta . . . she had been Vegeta’s mate. Kakkarot smiled—the youthful smile of a man without a care. If anyone could steal Vegeta’s heart, it would be her.

 

Kakkarot wound the net’s cable around his wrist and flared his ki. As he wobbled into the air with the three pods in a net beneath him, he muttered, “And so goes Kakkarot, son of Bardock, the glorified pack animal.”

 

 

 

 

‘The base’ turned out to be only an armory converted into a makeshift living space for the resident Saiyans. Leaning towers of food trunks were stacked against the walls, along with scattered bits of armor and clothing. A mixed group were hunched in the corner playing a game of dice. Many sparred to stay loose and while away the time until the real battle would begin. Kakkarot felt sparks of excitement sear through his consciousness. His only regret was that Vegeta and Sansai were not here to fight beside him. Without them, the squad felt disjointed and a fragment of its true self. Kakkarot raised a hand in greeting to several Saiyan captains discussing strategy and rummaged through the freeze-dried food. Scooping up an armload, he found a quiet corner to eat.

 

Activity slowly built over the next hour. Steadily, the scattered Saiyans returned to base, each gathering with their battalions, outlining the points that needed protection. Knowing Frieza, if the Saiyans frustrated him with Shekhal again, he would try to blow the planet to smithereens. Since none of them could feel his ki approaching, then his lackeys would try to immobilize Shekhal’s plants. When precious minutes passed and no Raditz, Kakkarot reached out a tendril of thought towards his brother’s ki, smoldering clean and strong.

 

 _Kakkarot. I need your help._ The weariness in his voice echoed through their connection. Kakkarot was already on his feet and in the sky.

 

 _What happened? What’s wrong?_ There was a pause.

 

 _It’s Broly. He’s gone mad._ Kakkarot halted in mid-air, torn.

 

_Brother, my presence will only make it worse._

_I know. But I need strong hands. Hurry._ Kakkarot nodded, pouring energy into speed. The brooding smog dissipated in the blaze of his light. _Why didn’t I sense the spike in Broly’s ki?_ he wondered, _Gods, we don’t need this now! The Ice Clan will arrive in moments!_

 

They were in what looked like a storage yard, large metal containers hemming them into an area barely large enough for them. As he grew closer, he saw Raditz and Keyuka holding each of Broly’s arms, Zuki sat on his chest, hands grimly fisted on the armstraps of his armor. The burly second class looked small and frail compared to Broly’s bulk, thrashing in the powdery ash. Paragus stood over Broly, a strange green glow encasing his hand. The circlet on the giant’s forehead was glowing, his face twisted into a gruesome mask of pain. Kakkarot hung back, observing the situation. If he came within Broly’s range of vision, they could easily lose their hold on him. While Kakkarot was more than able to defend himself, they had bigger problems than petty squabbles among themselves.

Paragus’s voice spoke in a low, steady rhythm in Sayiago, soft against the hoarse agony of Broly’s screams.

 

“I’m going to regret this,” Kakkarot muttered to himself. With lightning agility, he swept in and chopped at the side of Broly’s neck. His large body went limp.

 

“What are you doing? I have this under control!” Paragus exclaimed, his scarred face a matching foil to his son’s.

 

“Clearly, you don’t! Damn your pride, Paragus!” Keyuka growled.

 

“If it wasn’t for Kakkarot, Broly would be tearing my throat out right now with his teeth,” Zuki said, visibly shaken. Ash smeared on his cheek, and livid purple bruises stood out on his throat.

 

“How did this happen?” Kakkarot asked, eyes locked on Broly’s face.

 

“Zuki smirched Sansai’s honor and Broly attacked.” Paragus said succinctly, glaring at the smaller warrior. A growl escaped from Kakkarot’s throat and Zuki muscles grew taut with indignation.

 

“Hardly. Granted, it was a bad joke, but I didn’t deserve to be attacked by a wild animal!” Zuki loosed a kick a Broly’s side. The inert giant hardly stirred.

 

“But you knew Broly was volatile and protective of his cousin.” Keyuka said. Zuki hung his head, kicking a rock.

 

“Unhealthily so,” muttered Zuki, “Sansai’s a warrior full-fledged. She can take care of herself. I’m sure _she_ would have laughed it off.”

 

“Enough!” Raditz bellowed in the tones of a drill master. He turned to glare down his nose at Zuki.

 

“I don’t give a damn what you meant. What you said was uncouth, and deserved a good hit, if not with Broly’s . . . alacrity.” Kakkarot felt a smirk flit across his lips. Bad blood or not, Raditz made a good captain. His mane of hair swayed as he moved, strong fingers digging into his brawny biceps to master his passion. His voice was deadly soft.

 

“And Paragus, master your beast, or so help me, I’ll put him down myself.” The older Saiyan paled. Kakkarot watched the emotions vie for supremacy in his manner, mutating from rage, to fear, to pride and back again. When at last he spoke, the words were cool and controlled.

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

Kakkarot leapt in. “Raditz, the Ice Clan will be arriving in minutes. We need to get to--”

 

The words had no more than left his mouth before Broly surged to life, seizing Kakkarot by the throat. His ki blazed hot and red around him, eyes reflecting the unholy glow. Stunned and his ki shield lowered, Kakkarot could only choke and writhe in his iron grasp. The din of voices fell over him and flurries of movement flickered on the edges of his vision, but all he knew was the unforgiving fingers around his throat and the hate in Broly’s eyes. In desperation, Kakkarot aimed another chop at his neck. Whatever had possessed Broly was stronger than neural pathways, however, and he only grew more enraged at the blow.

 

 _“Kakkarot!”_ he bellowed and the fingers constricted. Kakkarot’s mouth opened in a soundless scream. Kakkarot recognized his brother’s war cry as he seized Broly from behind, raining blows over his head and neck. With demonic obstinacy, Broly held on, even as the stone on his circlet glowed and blows rained upon him from all sides. Starved of oxygen, Kakkarot’s vision darkened. Glassy eyes looked up.

 

Too late.

 

The sky was on fire.

 

 

 

 

Kakkarot awoke to light slaps across his face. His eyes flashed open to find Raditz and Keyuka bent over him, their distinctive spikes of hair silhouetted by the burning sky. Their voices came to him from a distance, tinny and small. Thought blazed through his torpor.

He was on Shekhal!

The Ice Clan was attacking!

Kakkarot shot to his feet, landing in a defensive crouch. Broly and Paragus were gone, and Zuki lay in the ash, completely still. The hot salt smell of blood hung in the smoggy air. Pain knotted within Kakkarot at the sight of his squad-brother, a large hole rent through his chest.

 

Overhead the bulbous, disk-shaped ships characteristic of the Ice Clan hung in the atmosphere, tiny, needle-like bursts of ki issuing from their underbellies. Glowing green ki-moons sprouted here and there, and soon after the ape forms of his comrades roared their defiance to the Universe. Each swing of meaty fist brought death, as did each fiery blast bursting from their fanged maws. The sight heartened Kakkarot and he turned to the remainder of his crew.

 

“What do we do, Raditz?” his voice was hoarse and weak, but a sore throat was the least of his worries. The tug of the moons’ glow was nearly irresistible, but he fought the urge to change, channeling the feral quickening to power. His brother’s face broke out into a savage smile, his canines extended and black irises rimmed with red in the light of the green ki moon.

 

“We do what we do best, little brother. We fight.”

 

They leapt for the nearest ship as one, quick and nimble in their original forms. Raditz led, with Kakkarot and Keyuka flanking him. Soldiers met them in the air. Weak and ill-trained, they stood no chance against moon-mad Saiyans. Raditz and Keyuka tore them apart with their bare hands, howling in savage delight as blood anointed their limbs. Kakkarot, repulsed by such wanton violence, dispatched his enemies with ki beams through the heart. Pitched battles burst the air around them, burning off Shekhal’s smog and ash with fire. The three Saiyans merged their minds so that they fought as a unit, each guarding the others’ backs.

_Block, counter, punch, fire, fight, kill!_ The rhythm sang in Kakkarot’s blood in feral ecstasy. A pile of corpses nearly a mile wide grew on the ground below. The acrid scent of burnt hair and skin thickened the air, the blood colors of a hundred races painting the sky. Blood and sweat and ash mixed into a sooty grime over his battlesuit and blackened his white gloves. He frowned at the seemingly endless stream of soldiers pouring from the ship. _At this rate, it will be nightfall before we even make a dent,_ Kakkarot thought.

 

His ki built within him like a storm, ungovernable and vicious in its beauty. He cupped his hands at his side and formed the shapeless energy into a perfect blue orb. The words came to his mind from another life, another time, yet the same thread of battle joy filled every fiber of his being. Sensing the power of it, Raditz and Keyuka fell behind him, readying blasts of their own.

 

_“Ka . . . Me . . .”_

 

The light pulsed with its own life; the energy animated every cell of his body. He would blast the ships into the sun!

 

 _“Ha . . . Me . . .”_ The rasp of Keyuka and Raditz intoning their own death words behind him was encouraging.

 

_“HA!!!”_

 

The power leapt from him like a living thing, a torrent of blue energy engulfing all that lay before it in its flood. Gold and red beams shot beside Kakkarot’s from Keyuka and Raditz. Not only one ship, but three were swept up, blasted out of Shekhal’s atmosphere, leaving gnarled corpses of twisted metal behind. Breathless and exhilarated, Kakkarot grinned at his companions. The three of them shared a barking laugh, hoarse with the expended effort.

 

“Come! We can’t leave them to all the fun!” Raditz crowed, motioning to the livid battle below them. As they sped downward in formation, an abrupt cry shattered the air. The main ship, far larger than the others, descended still further, unperturbed by the blasts hurled at it. A tiny ki gun from its underbelly was shattering the ki moons. Those who transformed were rapidly shrinking into their original bodies, naked and vulnerable.

 

Kakkarot watched as a Saiyan hurled several orbs of ki at the gun. As the smoke cleared, it remained unscathed. Without warning a red bolt caught the Saiyan from Toma’s squad through the shoulder. Normally, a blow like that would only slow a Saiyan down. But instead he dropped out of the sky as if he had forgotten how to fly. Terror seized his heart. As he was struck, the man’s ki signature was cut off, as if he had died. Keyuka cursed violently.

 

“What new horror is this? It shatters our moons and . . .” Raditz did not say the rest. It was too horrible to contemplate. What was a Saiyan who could not wield ki as easily as breathe?  A flurry of red bolts incapacitated dozens of Saiyans, including Captain Toma.

 

“We have to stop that ship.” Kakkarot said simply, already preparing another Kamehameha. He poured still more energy into it, feeling a deep burn within his senses, an ache in his muscles. The syllables fell from his lips with guttural precision. The blue tidal wave lashed forth against the ship and . . .  and dissipated as if it were no more than a puff of air. His limbs trembled and his eyes stared at the ship in disbelief.

 

“Wha—how could . . . I put everything I had into that attack . . . I don’t understand . . .”

 

“Since when did Frieza have such a powerful shield?!” Keyuka demanded of no one in particular. This battle would rapidly turn into a rout if that gun kept splintering the Saiyans’ ki. And if they couldn’t transform they’d be picked off.

 

“Come! Leave the ships to the other squads. That gun is our top priority. We have to destroy it.” Raditz steady decisiveness roused Kakkarot from his slack-jawed contemplation of the unharmed ship. The three blazed toward the Ice Clan’s flagship, joined by a knot of Toma’s warriors. Raditz’s mental command rang through the air.

_Distract them! We will take down the gun!_

 

They knocked aside blasts and fought through wave after wave of soldiers, the Saiyans behind them drawing away the blaster fire and the enemy’s attention. Levitating slowly so as not to arouse any ki-sensing defense mechanisms, the three left of the Prince’s squad crept to the cursed gun. A few weak blasts revealed that it would not melt or bend at the heat of ki.

 

“Let’s pry it loose,” Keyuka suggested.

 

As soon as he set his hands on the metal, arching red fingers of energy enveloped his body. With a snarling scream, he tore himself away and broke the current. Kakkarot moved forward, to catch him if he lost his ki. Keyuka recovered from the shock of it and shook his spiky mane.

 

“Gods, that hurt! What now?” Raditz glared at the gun with the utmost intensity.

 

“Maybe if we all try together, we can fry the electric current and tear it off.” Kakkarot suggested. At Keyuka’s grimace, he didn’t look forward to the attempt. Raditz shrugged.

 

“We have no other choice. On three.”

 

Each positioned themselves on a different side, raising their ki to protect themselves.

 

“One . . . Two . . . Three!”

 

Pain surged through Kakkarot’s body as his hands touched cold metal. His spine arched, his tail lashed, his whole body seized at the hot, blinding inferno unfurling under his skin. Channeling his desperation and pain and weariness, he heaved with all his strength at the horrible gun. Together, they screamed and pulled and pulled and _pulled_ . . . just when he thought he would collapse under the strain, the metal gave. Vigor surged through him and they tore the gun from the ship’s white underbelly. Once removed from the ship, sparking feebly, the gun was easily crushed into chunks of twisted metal.

 

A roar of jubilation rose from the Saiyans and the battle continued in earnest. The ki shield around the flagship did not stop the Saiyans. Instead, they used more primitive means to bring it down. Even in the midst of the battle, the Saiyans made a competition out of who could throw metal or stone farther, or who could do the most damage. Kakkarot hefted one of the landing legs of a crashed ship, taking careful aim at the tiny bubble of red glass at its front. He took a deep breath and flung it like a javelin. A stray blast from one of the other ships altered its path, but Kakkarot let out a whoop of triumph as the metal pierced the hull with a deafening screech. Other Saiyans threw boulders and shards of metal until the flagship wobbled in the air and crashed in a blaze of blue fire. The two remaining ships quickly retreated out of Shekhal’s atmosphere, preparing for hyper-light travel. A squad began to pursue them, when Raditz bellowed, “Let them go! Their master’s wrath will not be as merciful as death by Saiyan hands!”

 

Kakkarot wiped his grimy, sweaty forehead with the back of a bloodied hand. His blood hummed pleasantly through his veins and he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. There was nothing a Saiyan loved more than a good fight, and victory only sweetened the joy. He sat back on the warm hull of a ship, its pipes and crewmen strewn on Shekhal’s soft mud like the ravaged innards of a ko-deer brought down by a mountain cat.

 

He could hear the cries of hapless soldiers that survived the crash, only to be killed quick and clean. Saiyans didn’t have much use for prisoners. Any found alive on the flagship, however, were kept alive. The ‘ki-killer’ as it was called, was a disturbing development. Had Father Seen it and not told them? Kakkarot didn’t think so. But how could he _not_ See it? The questions were heavy and onerous ones and Kakkarot quickly forced them from his mind. Sorrow rebounded like a cry in the dark from Keyuka. Kakkarot swallowed hard. With the battle won and bloodlust sated, grief stole over them.

 

As the burly second class flew in the direction of where his fallen brother lay, Kakkarot followed him. He lay undisturbed in the ash, his lifeblood congealed in red-black pools around his body. Keyuka knelt by his brother’s side and unwound the silver chain Zuki had worn around his neck. With deliberate motions, he wound the chain around his hand, the clean metal bright against the mottled blood and ash clotted on Keyuka’s hands.

 

“This is _turash’ya_ , Kakkarot. I will not rest until the debt is paid in Broly’s blood.” Keyuka’s deep voice was like the pound of a drum, each beat the toll of judgment.

 

A small shudder ran through Kakkarot. In the new order in which he had grown up, the old ways took on an almost religious meaning. Keyuka invoked one of the oldest and most binding of debts: the debt of _turash’ya_ , of blood and honor.

 

“I witness it, Keyuka. May your hand not falter.” Kakkarot said formally. Broly was a loose cannon, a mad animal. Zuki did not deserve this dishonorable death. Struck down by a fellow Saiyan, not in honorable combat, but a coward’s blow when his defenses were lowered. Kakkarot clapped a hand on Keyuka’s shoulder.

 

“Let’s go, Keyuka. He will receive a warrior’s funeral on Planet Vegeta.” Gathering his brother’s limp form in his arms, Keyuka followed, his face stamped with the imprint of sworn revenge.


	10. Blood Oaths

Bulma woke to Sansai’s brusque shake on the shoulder and wished for the thousandth time for the persistent buzz of her alarm clock. Planet Vegeta’s incessant sunlight stung her eyes and she untangled her legs from the sheets. Saiyans were not overly bothered by extremes in temperature, but to Bulma, the sweltering heat of the day was draining, and she was grateful for the thick blankets during their frigid nights. She made a mental note to ask Sansai about a temperature control system. Surely with their advanced technology they could spare the time to make an air conditioner! Chuckling at her grumpy, blind swat, Sansai returned to her meal at the table.  

 

In the two days that had passed since Goku— _Kakkarot_ —and the others of Vegeta’s squad had departed to Shekhal, Bulma’s days in the palace had formed a comfortable—albeit strange for her circumstance—routine: she woke in the morning to find Sansai gorging herself on the too large meal that was sent. Vegeta appeared without fail and insulted her in some manner. She’d snap back, indignantly aware of the smug amusement in his eyes. Kami, she was so pathetic. Her heart gave a little lurch every time she saw him, her eyes would latch onto his face and form without deviation, as if afraid he would vanish. After their little verbal spar, Sansai escorted her to Zohan’s lab and Bulma spent the better part of the morning ‘working’ on Vegeta’s weapon. In reality, she amped up her shock watch to incredible proportions and mentally mapped out the repairs she would make on the time machine based on the visible damage she had seen on the crash.

 

Her worry for Sansai’s vigilance was unfounded. While unmoving in matters of her security and comfort, Sansai showed little interest in the technical aspect of her assignment. Bulma immediately discovered how much her assignment grated her warrior’s spirit. When Bulma was absorbed in her work or otherwise indisposed to conversation, Sansai meditated or paced or, when both those options bored her, improvised training routines in the limited space allotted, all the while humming rough songs in Saiyago under her breath. Her husky speaking voice smoothed into a smoky timbre when she sang, low and hypnotic.

 

A band of crystal screen ran at eye level throughout the halls of the tech sector, streaming lines of green glyphs which Bulma now recognized as written Saiyago, constantly looping any new news feed received via encoded light messages. In her abbreviated education, Bulma had not learned how to read the written text, but Sansai pointed out key strings of glyphs that translated to important words like _Vegeta_ —in reference to either the persons or the planet— _Ice Clan_ , _Shekhal_ , or _weapon_.

 

As time passed, she counted Sansai surreptitiously check the hyper-light feed twenty-two times in an hour. She was worried for her uncle and cousin—and, though she would never admit it, Kakkarot. Though the veiled comments made by Vegeta and Kakkarot in their single conversation, Bulma deduced that Kakkarot had, at the very least, a serious crush on Sansai, if not actively in love with her. But more pressing than Kakkarot’s affections, was the tension emanating from every Saiyan that crossed her path. Even Vegeta seemed distracted, only grunting at her verbal sally involving an allusion to a donkey somewhere in his bloodline. Their tension rubbed off on Bulma. Had Goku gone to his death again? She didn’t know if she could stand to lose him _twice_. Sansai cried out and Bulma whirled around to find her staring at the feed. The same message was appearing and in one sentence exhausted Bulma’s meager store of words. Sansai read it aloud.

 

“It’s from Raditz. The defense of Shekhal was successful. But . . . but the Ice Clan developed a new weapon of some kind. A dangerous one.”

 

“Is Goku okay?” Bulma burst out. Sansai frowned, forming the word.

 

“Oh, Kakkarot. Yes, he is fine,” she said distractedly and the breath whooshed out of Bulma, her heart pounding in relief.

 

“What kind of weapon is it?”  Sansai’s hands were balled into fists at her side, brittle tension winding her lean muscles taut.

 

“I don’t know. But Raditz also says something happened to my cousin and uncle. Zuki is dead.” The breathless words fell from her lips with brutal precision, and Bulma could see what it cost her to say them. Bulma rose and went to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. A smile cracked her stony grimace and she covered Bulma’s hand with her own, warm and knotted with calluses from fighting.

 

“H--he was my squad-brother for ten years. He was . . . my friend. But it was good death, fighting to defend Planet Vegeta. He will enter the Hall of Heroes with our forefathers.” Silence stretched between them. After a moment, she roused herself.

 

“I should go to the prince. Come, your gadgets can wait. Raditz and the others will make planetfall in five minutes.”

**

“You knew of this didn’t you, _Seer_? This little toy of Ice Clan’s. This ki-killer. You Saw it and you didn’t tell me!” Vegeta accused, not bothering to restrain his fury. Blue light burst thick and opaque around him as his ki spiraled up and up and up, cracking the tiles of the landing pad. Scouters exploded as his power overloaded them and he saw Nappa grin in admiration. The focus of his fury stood nonchalantly between his two sons, scowling face blank.

 

“I Saw the gun, but I didn’t know its capabilities. I Saw it strike Toma and the others, but only the wound, not the effect, so I didn’t pursue it. I Saw only our victory. You must understand, my Prince, my gift is an imprecise art at best.” Vegeta dismissed the notion with a contemptuous flick of his head. The remainder of his crew stood in a semi-circle around him, somber and quiet.

 

“You circumvented other futures without a problem. What was to stop you from preventing this little turn of events?” Vegeta mastered his power, drawing the blistering heat of it back inside his body. A flicker of movement on the edge of his vision revealed Sansai and the woman edging their way through the ring of his squad. He was pleased to see the woman wearing a battlesuit top with a collar, successfully hiding the bonding mark on her neck and molding to the soft, sweet lines of her torso.  

 

“It wasn’t as easy as you think,” Bardock replied wryly, drawing Vegeta from his ogling, “but this could turn in our favor.” Vegeta glowered at him, fury coalescing in a hot knot in his belly.

 

“Oh? And how is that? Thanks to your brat, two ships scurried back to Frieza! He knows his little weapon works! Now he’ll be outfitting every idiot who can wield a gun with them! So tell me, great Seer, how will this help us?”

 

“We have her.” Bardock pointed to his—the Earth woman. Vegeta growled low in his throat. He could not afford to start thinking of her as his. It was bad enough that his other self was stupid enough to bond with her. Her bright blue eyes widened and her soft lips pursed in a frown. Vegeta snarled at the images brought to mind. Damn her! He could barely concentrate with the perfume of her skin filling his nose.

 

“What does she have to do with this?” he rasped harshly, glaring murder at Bardock. Damn the Seer to Hell, he’d seen his frustration and guessed its cause, a smug little smirk curling at his lips. He was all Vegeta could do not to blast him into the next dimension.

 

“She is a mastertech unlike any we’ve ever seen. I’m sure it is not beyond her ken to counteract this new weapon.” Vegeta faced her fully, folding his arms over his chest.

 

“Can you, woman? Do you think you’re on par with Frieza’s underlings?” her eyes flashed and she flicked her hair over her shoulder coyly. Her scent washed over him like a wave. A confident smile flirted with her soft mouth.

 

“Bet your ass I am. But it seems my position has changed.” She had the ear of all of them now, each eyeing her with mixed suspicion and amusement. Vegeta arched a brow. What was the woman up to?

 

“Indeed? How so?” the smile widened and she closed the distance between them. Vegeta stood his ground even as her soft body molded to the hardness of his armor and her fingers fiddled with his medallion.

 

“It seems to me that you’re in a bit of trouble, Vegeta. You can’t continue the war with Frieza arming his men with ki-killers, and you can’t kill Frieza without getting stronger. So, I propose a new deal. I’ll give you the tools you need on one condition.” Enjoying the game, Vegeta splayed his hand over the small of her back and reveled in her intake of breath.

  
”What did I say about touching me, woman?” he growled huskily, pleased to see a blush bloom across her pale skin. Steeling herself, she demanded, “Give me my ship and promise me my freedom.” Vegeta smirked.

 

“That’s two conditions, woman. If you can’t do simple calculations, how are you going to help me? And what if I refuse? There is no way you can escape me.” With an inarticulate cry of fury she tore herself away from him.

                                                                                                                                        

“Oh yes there is, you prick!” she pulled a slender, cylindrical object from her belt and threw it on the ground. With an explosion of orange smoke, a sleek air car appeared. As they all stood dumbfounded, she leapt inside and blasted off. With a gesture, he stopped his men from following. Sansai powered up.

 

“I’ll fetch her, Sire,” she said wearily. Vegeta shook his head. 

 

“I’ll handle this.”

 

He rose in the air and rocketed through the sun-warmed currents of air towards the distant speck of red against the purple sky. With an effortless twitch, he sped in front of the air car and brought it to a stop with one flick of his foot, buckling the front of end of the vehicle. The look of helpless fury and hate on her face stopped him from mocking her. He had seen a similar look on his own visage countless times in his other life when he was a slave to Frieza. Something inside him recoiled at the thought of her hating him. Outraged tears hung unshed in her crystalline blue eyes and her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel in impotent passion.

 

“Bulma.” She flinched at the use of her name. Suspicion spread across her face. Averting his gaze from her face, he addressed the sky with idly moving orange clouds.

 

“You will have your ship and your freedom on my word as Prince of Saiyans. _After_ you help us. I know you want to get back to the brat, but damn it, if he’s any son of mine, he doesn’t need a mother to coddle him!” he levitated around the car to the driver door. She tore off the seat restraints and stood. Her blue eyes were glued to him and he felt a flicker of emotion stir deep inside him, a chord struck deep within his blood, his soul. _So beautiful . . ._

 

“With you by my side, we could rule the galaxy . . .” the sentiment flew from his lips of its own will. Her eyes widened, a soft hand fluttered in the air over his cheek, as if to touch him.

 

“Vegeta.” The syllables of his name fell from her lips with such sadness and he remembered that she had spent the past fifteen years alone, raising their son to manhood.

 

“Do you not trust me? I hate Frieza as you do, and I’ve given you my word to help you destroy him. Do you think I’m just going to leave without a thought?” Vegeta idly wound a strand of her hair around his finger, blue silk against the white of his glove. A fine dew of sweat covered her skin and Vegeta frowned at the glaring sun, remembering that Earth had a far cooler climate.

 

“You bent Time in an attempt to keep the brat from harm. I have no doubt you would defy the Kais themselves to get back to him.” the words were clipped with the slightest tinges of irrational jealousy. He hated that he cared what she thought, he hated the sadness in her eyes, he hated wanting her as he did. Vegeta wound an arm around her, enjoying the feel of her soft body pressed to his hard one.

 

“I would,” she said, not denying it, “but—Kami, Vegeta, I . . . I care about you too.” The last she said in a whisper. Vegeta felt the tiny flicker of emotion swell and broaden within him and, coupled with the vestiges of the bond from his other life, exploded violently and suddenly into  . . . into something Saiyans didn’t speak of and sure as hell didn’t express in public.

 

For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to say. So instead, he pulled her tighter into his embrace and, nonchalantly holding an open palm to her air car, blew it to dust. She squealed in anger at the fragments of red paint and cinders fell to Planet Vegeta’s surface far below.

 

“Damn it, Vegeta! That was my best air car! I spent _months_ working on that!” her voice was shrill, her eyes spitting blue sparks. Vegeta only grinned devilishly, rocketing higher into the sky. She made a small sound and clung to him in mute surprise.

 

“Finally,” he remarked, “a way to shut you up.” A flicker of humor shone in her eyes and, with his hands occupied around her, dared to flick the end of his nose lightly. He lunged for her fingers, snapping his teeth together.

 

“Careful. I just might drop you, woman.” She laughed and Vegeta contemplated doing so just to prove to her—and himself—that his infatuation was just that. Bonded mate or not, Vegeta did not countenance this swelling tide of foreign emotions. But if he did drop her, he would never hear the end of it.

 

“Vegeta?” her voice held a softly questioning note that he had never heard before. He glared down his nose at her, scrutinizing the minutest change in expression. Brow knit together and lower lip pouting slightly, she looked perplexed. He grunted in reply.

 

“How—how is it that you know me? You couldn’t have been to Earth . . .” she trailed off. Vegeta scowled. It was bad enough that he had to share a mental connection with the bumbling third class Kakkarot, but to explain this embarrassing ordeal to the woman!

 

“I don’t know _how_ , woman. All I know is that when I was injured very badly, I woke with memories of a time and place that I had never seen. I . . . I remember everything. Earth, Namek, the brat . . .”

 

“Trunks? You remember our son? But . . . but how?”

 

“I just said I don’t know, woman! Are you deaf?” he snapped, unnerved by the strength of his feelings and the mysterious circumstances he found himself in. _Damn Bardock, he was right. Annoying blue-haired Earthling female messing everything up . . ._ he thought grumpily.

 

“This is a disaster,” she muttered under her breath. He couldn’t help but agree and they brooded silently in their own thoughts as he flew slowly back to the Capital.

 

His squad was still waiting for him when he landed. Nappa grinned haughtily at the woman’s wind-whipped condition and Raditz started to say something. Sansai interrupted him by falling to her knees before Vegeta, lifting her tattooed wrist up to him. Keyuka glared at her stonily and Vegeta remembered the blood oath of _turash’ya_ he had sworn against Broly. By the old ways, Keyuka was free to demand the blood-price of the oath from Broly’s next of kin if Broly was too cowardly to show his face. Vegeta knew Kakkarot would not allow this to happen, nor could Vegeta himself, for the _mera’jah_ bound him as it bound Sansai.

 

“I am unworthy of this mark, Sire. My blood has betrayed you.” Sansai’s voice quavered and Vegeta heard the Earth woman’s intake of breath. She started to move toward the kneeling Saiyan, but Vegeta stopped her with a warning glance. Vegeta cursed under his breath. If any more of his squad swore by the oaths of their fathers, they would be incapacitated!

 

“Stand up, you fool. Your uncle and cousin may be deserters and oath-breakers, but you aren’t. Keyuka’s _turash’ya_ still stands, but Broly’s madness must be taken into account. Keyuka, Sansai is your squad-sister. Do you truly bear Broly’s debt against her?” 

 

The scarred warrior stepped forward, Sansai’s lithe, crouched form engulfed by his shadow. His expression unreadable, he stared at Sansai for a long minute, Zuki’s necklace a glittering chain around his curled fist. Vegeta saw Kakkarot tense, ready to spring to Sansai’s defense. All was silent save for the howling wind. Impatient with the proceedings, Vegeta snapped, “Speak, soldier!”

 

“My brother served Planet Vegeta all his life,” Keyuka began haltingly, spitting words through clenched teeth, “He was a good soldier, a strong warrior. He was struck down by a raving animal on your account. It was Broly’s hand that killed him, but it was Sansai, daughter of Aspar and Negi who was at the source. My _turash’ya_ stands. If your cousin is too much of a coward to face me in combat, I will call the debt from you.”

 

Lifting one broad fingertip, he shot a spire of ki at Sansai. The gold beam caught her cheek in a glancing blow before dissipating, and a bead of rich red blood stained her skin from the burn. As one, Vegeta and Kakkarot struck Keyuka: Kakkarot in the gut, Vegeta across the face. As Keyuka was doubled over, Vegeta snarled, “You fool! Have you no honor? You are no better than Broly to attack a fellow squad-member without provocation!” Keyuka growled low in his throat, but retained sense enough not to attack Vegeta. _Humph. Maybe he’s not so much of an idiot as I thought. I would kill him without even blinking if he tested me, squad-member or not._

 

“Madness runs in the blood, she is as diseased as her cousin. Mark my words.” Kakkarot snarled and would have attacked, but was stayed by Sansai’s hand on his arm. At Vegeta’s terse motion, Keyuka flew from the platform to retrieve his brother’s body and give him the funeral rites of a warrior.

 

Calmly, Sansai swiped the blood from her cheek and rubbing it between her fingers thoughtfully.

 

“I thank you for defending my honor, Kakkarot, Prince Vegeta,” she bobbed a quick bow in his direction, “but I am more than capable of protecting myself.” Kakkarot began to protest, but Sansai silenced him with a flashing glare.

 

The steel in her tone was enough for Vegeta to refrain from mocking her. Women, and Saiyan women especially, were prickly when it came to matters of competence. Even if Vegeta were to snatch her from the edge of the void, Sansai would curse him the whole way, protesting that she could have done the same herself. The prince knew there was a scar lancing across her left shoulder that she wouldn’t have gotten had she accepted Kakkarot’s help when offered. Vegeta glanced at the Earth woman and smirked. She was worse than Sansai, for she had proclaimed that the gods had made a mistake, and sought to mend the breach herself, with naught but her hands and her intellect. A woman worthy of his mark and his throne, Vegeta decided.

 

Raditz insinuated his bulk into the space before Vegeta, blocking the woman from view. Vegeta had to stop himself from demanding that the captain move aside so he could look at her unobstructed. Instead, Vegeta glared at the elder of Bardock’s sons, folding his arms over his chestplate, his medallion digging into his left forearm.

 

“I ask for your pardon, Prince Vegeta, for letting Frieza’s ships escape. It was a mistake.”

 

“Yes it was. But you have served me and Planet Vegeta well, Captain.” Raditz bowed, accepting Vegeta’s sparse praise with grace.

 

“Now all of you get out of my sight! I need to speak with Toma and the other men who were shot with the . . . ki-killer. Woman, Seer, you come with me.”

 

“And I, Sire?” Sansai asked, casting a glance between him and the Earth woman. Vegeta smirked.

 

“I don’t want you getting fat and lazy during your assignment, Sansai. Go and spar with Kakkarot. I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on.” Both of them brightened at the prospect and flew away to the training grounds.

 

Bardock and the woman fell in step beside him. A group of thirty or so congregated in one of the many courtyards branching from the palace. All were still and somber, as if all the vitality had been drained from them. Their scouters beeped at Vegeta’s approaching ki and as one they turned and bowed. Vegeta waited three seconds and after they rose from their genuflect and barked, “Toma! Where are you?”

 

The gaunt-faced warrior stepped forward, still wearing the crumbling armor he had worn on Shekhal. Though his wounds had been healed, the olive tones of his skin were markedly paler than normal and he was sweating profusely, eyes bloodshot. Vegeta felt his belly rebel in disgust at the sight of such a staid warrior so unbalanced.

 

“My Prince,” he said, his voice a quavering shadow of what it once was. To salve his comrades’ pride, Raditz had told their story in detail, relieving them of their duty. Still, Vegeta was skeptical about the depths of the impairment. How could a single shot rob them of what was so integral to their nature?

 

“Raise an orb of ki,” Vegeta ordered. Toma flinched, his jaw flexing convulsively. A look of pathetic pleading filled his brown eyes.

 

“But Sire . . .” stuttered Toma.

 

“Prince Vegeta,” Bardock said softly, in warning. Vegeta glared at him. To think, this man, this weakling third class would presume to tell the son of Planet Vegeta’s royal house to guard his tongue!

 

“Do it!” he snapped and for a moment he thought Toma might weep, his body racked with convulsions. In a softer voice, Vegeta added, “Try, Toma. Just try.”   At his words, Toma regained control of his face and body. The courtyard was silent save for the ever-present wind blowing stinging hot air in from the desert. Vegeta was preternaturally aware of the woman standing beside him, the soft sigh of her breathing, her sweet scent, the tension in her lean muscles as she watched Toma.

 

The second class warrior’s muscles knotted in furious effort, his entire concentration centered on the palm of his right hand. Breath hissed through clenched teeth, spittle flecking his lips. The talon-like hand remained disappointingly empty. With a strangled roar, Toma redoubled his effort, a vein in his forehead pulsing, blood rushing up to color his face. Nothing.

 

“Stop.” Vegeta said, thoroughly disconcerted.

 

Toma went limp with relief, his face a picture of misery. Vegeta swallowed hard. Toma couldn’t even raise an orb of ki, something every Saiyan child could do by the time they were three. Gods, what had Frieza created? Was it permanent? Vegeta turned to the woman and saw the dark understanding in her beautiful blue eyes.

 

“You must replicate this, woman. And you must find a way to reverse it. If Frieza’s runtlings can do it, I know you can.” Her features hardened in determintation and Vegeta smirked. He almost pitied Frieza, for with his strength and his woman’s cleverness, the old monster’s throne of bone and ice would not stand for long.


	11. Royal Contention

“Damn! Why didn’t I think of that? It would have saved me a lot of trouble when you were a kid.” Bulma muttered, staring at the three dimensional holo image of Frieza’s ki-killer. She’d said it half-jokingly, but the dark look Kakkarot shot her was enough to stifle her hilarity.

 

“Sorry. I keep forgetting,” she said. Since his return from Shekhal, Vegeta had assigned Kakkarot to help Sansai guard her. They did so in shifts, their off hours spent training and doing whatever else Vegeta assigned them.

 

“I remember you too, you know.” Kakkarot said quietly. Bulma blinked stupidly at him. As she watched his earnest face harden into a look of thoughtful reticence, she marveled at the difference between this version of him and the one she’d grown up with.

 

“I was hurt bad. I saw . . . I saw you and the bald man. He was my friend. And you and the scarred warrior. Me on Namek. Me as . . . as a Super Saiyan.” He whispered the last, as if it was blasphemous for anyone but those of Vegeta’s line to even entertain the notion.

 

“It passed so quickly. I only remember snatches of it.” Bulma’s throat closed at the thought of Krillin and Yamcha. _They were so brave . . ._

 

“The bald man, Krillin, you were best friends as long as I knew you, Yamcha too. Do . . . do you remember Chi-Chi?” Bulma asked gently, thinking wryly of what her tempestuous friend would say to him about his devotion to Sansai. He frowned, black eyes pensive. He repeated his wife’s name under his breath several times, memorizing the syllables. Then his expression softened.

 

“She was . . . my mate. She gave me a son.”

 

“She still is. And your son’s name was Gohan. He was a brave warrior and a sweet boy.” A knot rose in her throat.

 

“Was?” Kakkarot said softly. Against her will, tears slipped down her cheeks at the thought of Trunks’ pain, Chi-Chi’s weeping and Gohan’s broken body when they buried him. 

 

“He died three months ago fighting the androids. He died and my son became a Super Saiyan.” Kakkarot swallowed hard at the mention of his son’s death but then the rest of her words dawned on him and his eyes flew wide.

 

“Your half-breed son was a Super Saiyan?”  Bulma shot to her feet, bristling with fury and brandishing a small blade she used to scrape away debris.

 

“Watch your tongue, Kakkarot, or I’ll cut it out. Trunks is not some half-breed. He is my son! And if you damned Saiyans are too stupid to see his worth, than it’s your problem, but never, _never_ make the mistake of saying so in my hearing!” Kakkarot spread his hands, nervously chuckling as he had so often when they were younger.

 

“I’m sorry, Bulma. I didn’t mean it that way.” As she calmed, Bulma thought, _How strange. He is my Goku, but different too. Both he and Vegeta remember me._ Bulma made a dismissive sweep of her hand.

 

“Don’t worry about it Kakkarot. I keep forgetting that you were raised Saiyan. In my time Vegeta always called Gohan ‘brat’ or ‘half-breed’ or somesuch. I take it intermarriage is frowned upon?” Kakkarot grew serious and still, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes. Heat stung her cheeks. He knew she was thinking about Vegeta.

 

“More than frowned upon. Years ago it was forbidden by the law. Pure Saiyan blood was of utmost importance. A half-breed was considered lower than the lowest of the third class, no better than a slave race.”

 

“And now?” Bulma asked, one hand fluttering up to touch Vegeta’s mark under the taut fabric of the battlesuit. Kakkarot propped his feet on the lip of Zohan’s pristine counter, scattering grains of red sand. Chewing thoughtfully on a large slab of _y’far_ left over from the ‘second breakfast’ Sansai had brought her, he continued, “Now it has relaxed a bit, the lower classes may have _tujet_ mistresses, but the first wife must be Saiyan. Males outnumber females, so we need purebloods. The Elites, the Royal line especially, aren’t supposed to care about their women for more than breeding heirs, that has been our custom for a long time.” He paused, chewing.

 

“I heard a story once from Sansai, our _kahntor_ , of King Vegeta the fourteenth. Have you heard it?” Bulma shook her head.

 

“Sansai tells it much better than I do, but I’ll try. Well, King Vegeta was a mighty warrior who fought against the Ice Clan, who we were at war with at the time. He had a mate of Saiyan blood, beautiful and strong, named Rudaiya. She bore him twin sons. In those days, the Elites were much stronger than they are now, and had been trying for generations to take the king’s power for themselves. While King Vegeta was away to war and the princes were still young, the Elites rose in force and killed the queen’s guard.”

 

“A fierce warrior in her own right, she killed many of the soldiers along with Pota, who was bound to the queen by the _mera’jah_.” Absorbed in the story, Bulma logged away the questions into the back of her mind to ask Sansai later, the foremost being what exactly the _mera’jah_ entailed.   

 

“She and the young princes escaped with their lives, but the queen was badly wounded. She bled out before they had flown a kilometer. It might have been that if King Vegeta returned in time, the story would have ended differently. But because he was bonded to Rudaiya, he followed her into death just as he made planetfall.” A small gasp escaped her lips and Bulma pressed a closed fist over her heart. Kakkarot’s next words were garbled by the _y’far_ lolling around in his mouth, crumbs clinging to his chin.

 

“It was chaos after that. Pota managed to hide the young princes in the mountains while war raged between the classes and even among the Elites themselves. When the princes came of age, they set out to claim their birthright. But this only caused division, each choosing between the two sons. War raged on for years more, before at last, the elder son, King Vegeta the fifteenth, killed his brother and took the throne. Since then, it has been illegal for any of the Royal line to bond with their mates, Saiyan or no.” Now she understood the ramifications of the scar on her neck and the risk she was to Vegeta because of it. The small white scar on her neck could incite a civil war in a time when he needed every Saiyan he could get.

 

“What was the younger brother’s name? Were they both Vegeta?” she said, groping for lightness when her heart slammed against her ribs with maddening speed. Bulma had long been of the opinion that Saiyans were an extremely unimaginative lot when it came to naming things. Now Kakkarot smiled, but not the sweet, heart-melting smile of a little boy, but the wry, ironic grin of a jaded adult.

 

“No. The elder was named Vegeta as is our custom. The younger one’s name was Kakkarot. My mother had a very peculiar sense of humor, or so I’m told.” All was quiet save for the low hum of machinery around them. Unsettled by the exchange, Bulma quickly diverted the subject back to the holo. 

 

“Um, anyway, I’ve cracked what makes the gun work. It’s rather simple, much like any laser or ki gun in use now. The only difference is this,” she pointed to the bulbous protrusion behind the muzzle.

 

“As far as I can tell, it works like your ki moons except in reverse. Instead of making you transform, it sends a current of anti-blutz waves into the ki centers in your brain and,” she snapped her fingers, “there you have it.”

 

“Do you know how to reverse it?” Kakkarot asked, finishing off the _y’far_ and licking the rock wasp honey from his fingers. Bulma fisted her hands on her hips, studying the holo carefully. There was something annoyingly familiar about the design, the construction, the execution of this little piece of hardware.

 

“Not yet. But very soon.” 

 

Kakkarot unfolded himself from his hunched position and stretched. He pointed to the news feed scrolling on the wall.

 

“Just in time! Let’s go to dinner. I’m sure Vegeta’s--” he trailed off as a new message flashed along the screen and Bulma caught the glyph pattern for _Vegeta_.

 

“What is it, Kakkarot?” Bulma asked when the soldier just stood there dumbly, gaping at the scrolling words. She was tempted to have Sansai program written Saiyago into her brain just so that she wouldn’t have to wait for the emotionally repressed Saiyans to clue her in.

 

“King Vegeta is about to make planetfall.” Something inside Bulma quailed at the thought of meeting Vegeta’s father, especially with Vegeta’s mark on her neck.

 

“I’d better lay low then. The whole I’m-the-prince’s-mate-from-another-time thing is a bit much for a family reunion.” Kakkarot didn’t bother to argue, for what she said was true.

 

“I’m sure Father must have Seen how to introduce you. He’ll know what to do.” Bulma smiled. His trust his father was absolute, his faith unwavering.

 

“I must go to the prince. I’ll send Sansai.” Bulma nodded and kissed his cheek in unthinking affection. He blushed.

 

“Be safe . . . sister,” he whispered. Bulma sighed as the steel doors clicked closed behind him. Kami, she loved them already. She didn’t know if her withered heart could bear to have to leave them again. Sansai, Goku, Vegeta . . .

 

“The gods must be playing some sort of game with me. First the world goes to hell, then my machine malfunctions, then Vegeta is . . . is _my_ Vegeta. He remembers me and our son . . .” to leave him would be to tear out her heart, but to stay would be to destroy what little sanity she had left.

She could live without him.

Nothing really died of a broken heart, after all.

**

Vegeta tilted his head to one side, smirking as Sansai’s fist whizzed past. He delivered a vicious knee to her unguarded chin. As she staggered back, he delivered a roundhouse kick to the side of Raditz’s bushy head. The captain flew to the opposite side of ring, landing amidst a tangle of Elites and the brats they tutored gathered around the edge. Nonchalantly, he extended his arm to the left and pressed two fingers into the middle of Nappa’s barrel of a chest.

 

“You’re dead, Nappa.” Vegeta growled softly. In the two hours he had been sparring, he’d forsaken armor and battlesuit for a pair of training pants and the feel of the cool evening wind on his overheated skin was refreshing.

 

“When are you going to learn that an idiot of your size cannot catch anyone by surprise? Besides,” Vegeta tapped his left temple, “I don’t need a scouter to sense your ki signature.”

 

“Would you teach me to do that sometime, Sire? It would come in handy when your power level busts every scouter Zohan manages to put out.” Sansai asked, sucking the blood from her split lip and spitting onto the white and gold tiles. A long-fingered hand swiped sweat from her brow, and Vegeta noted with some amusement that she was completely oblivious to the ogling glances thrown her way by several Elites as well as a furtive one given by Raditz.

 

Vegeta scrutinized her appearance critically. She was at best, a pretty thing, with gleaming black hair and dark-fire eyes. The sleek, rangy lines of her screamed ‘warrior,’ sweat making her olive skin gleam in the slanting afternoon light. While the proportions of her body pleased him, Vegeta could not find it within himself to feel attracted to her. Sansai was a loyal soldier, a squad-member and, dare he say it, his friend, but he did not feel any stirrings of attraction at the sight of her, as he was sure his Elites were hoping. Why, the only reason they tolerated Sansai was because they hoped she would catch his eye and at last the future of the Royal House would be safe. If only he wasn’t tied up in nasty knots over a pair of blue eyes.

 

“I might if you’d give me the slightest challenge in the sparring ring. I suppose I’ll have to beat you to a pulp until your power level rises to an adequate range.”

 

Sansai caught the caustic humor in his tone and smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. She was about to issue a matching verbal sally when Kakkarot’s ki approached. As he touched down, his eyes immediately latched onto Sansai and Vegeta once again felt the gnawing disgust at his salivating. Gods, he was pathetic! How Sansai could miss it was beyond him. Cutting into his little fantasy, Vegeta said, “Ah, my favorite punching bag. Come, we will spar.” Instead of shedding his armor and taking his stance, Kakkarot only bowed.

 

“Prince Vegeta, your father is due to make planetfall within the next twenty minutes.”  

 

The courtyard, filled with rough chatter and traded insults abruptly grew silent. Vegeta had sent him a coded light transmission with all that had occurred on Shekhal, leaving out one vital detail.

The woman.

Only a handful knew of her relationship to him, and even fewer the depth of it.

His father! Come home again after a year away.

 

With mixed dread and anticipation he motioned for his squad and strode into the palace. A quick steam bath cleansed the sweat from his limbs and he dressed in a clean battlesuit and armor with Planet Vegeta’s crest emblazoned over his heart. Replacing his medallion around his neck, he stepped into fresh boots and was at the landing pad in less than ten minutes.

 

The rest of his crew fell in behind him likewise accoutered, Bardock bringing up the rear. _What the hell do we need a Seer for when he doesn’t tell us a fucking thing?_ Vegeta thought to himself, leveling a glare at the third class. Eyes bright with amusement, Bardock smirked at him, arms folded nonchalantly across his green and black armor. Vegeta resisted the urge to mop the floor with him, reminding himself for the thousandth time that he was needed. _Just wait, when the war ends, I’ll give you a scar to match the one you have, Bardock._

 

The great red-gold eye of the sun was beginning to set admist the nest of orange clouds. A pale meteor streaked directly above him: first one, then three, then twelve. One by one, they pelted the purple pads dotting the landing platform. The doors opened with a protesting hiss, tendrils of steam curling from their centers. The king emerged first, his upswept silhouette of hair overshadowing all others. The other Elites and Council Members stepped out in rapid succession, stretching and talking amongst themselves.

 

Vegeta cared only for his father’s cool black gaze sweeping over him and his crew. He drew himself up and uncurled his pride enough to bow from the waist.

 

“My king,” he said in cool formality, pleased that none of his womanish emotion colored his voice.

 

“Prince Vegeta. You seem to have survived my absence well enough. Stand up, boy, let me look at you.” the deep, gravelly voice fell over him, rich with the tones of pleasure and pride that the prince had succeeded in hiding.

 

Vegeta straightened and they assessed each other carefully. Their faces were carbon copies of the other, with only slight differences. Prince Vegeta was dismayed by the world-weary lines carved around his father’s eyes and mouth. After Moontime his father would be in his two hundred and twentieth year, and he looked little older than a man in his forties. Other than fatigue, he looked healthy enough, though his armor hung looser across the chest than it should have.

And his armor . . . flecked with blood!

He had been in battle!

 

Cautiously, Vegeta reached out a tendril of thought towards his father. Few Saiyans utilized their telepathic ability, but Vegeta had made it a particular skill of his to overcome barriers in a stronger mind and shield his own. Frieza had any number of pet telepaths on his command and Vegeta did not want to be caught unawares. By consequence, he had demanded that his crew master the skill and all had done so, with varying amounts of expertise. Vegeta’s mental strength was rivaled only by Sansai’s. Vegeta was surprised by the confused influx of emotion and pain emanating from the tall, unbending form sharply outlined with the dying light of the sun.

 

_Are you well, Father?_

The corner of King Vegeta’s mouth twitched, but in a smile or a grimace, the prince wasn’t sure.

 

_I am well, my son. It is our cause that has suffered. I wanted to tell you myself and I swore Bardock to silence._

 

Aloud, he said, “Planet Vegeta will mourn this day. Puntar has fallen, routed by Frieza’s ki-killers. One hundred and twenty of our comrades robbed of their power.”

 

Vegeta flinched as if struck. One hundred and twenty! So many warriors shattered, destroyed by cowardly machines! And Puntar, home of their staunch allies, a ki-wielding species outclassed only by Saiyan and Ice Clan. Vegeta pressed his consciousness towards his father, relieved when the brilliance of his ki warmed him. A collective groan emanated from the gathering of Saiyans. The king nodded, grave face set in sorrowful stillness.

 

“We battled long and hard, tearing them apart with out bare hands and the toys the Drani created. Today is a day of sorrow. But tomorrow we fight. Tomorrow, we will kill that cowardly lizard bastard!”

 

A roar of defiant enthusiasm drowned the deadly words. Yet they remained, a question lingering in their minds. If one hundred and twenty—one hundred and fifty, counting the soldiers from Shekhal—of Planet Vegeta’s warriors fell, what was to stop Frieza from dominating the galaxy?

 

 

 

 

It was hours later before King and Prince Vegeta had any privacy. In the meeting room adjacent to the throne room, father and son took their leisure, sharing a meal while trading bits of information. Minutes passed in amicable companionship, each enjoying the other’s presence while trying hard to hide it. Vegeta watched the minutest of changes pass over his father’s face, the corners of the slanted black eyes they shared tightening.

 

“Word has reached my ears of an Earth woman on Planet Vegeta. Her appearance knocked out our defense grid for nearly a half an hour.” Vegeta knew the deadly softness in his voice, both warning and question. Prince Vegeta made a mental note to beat Nappa to pulp. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his miserable life.

 

“Yes. There is such a woman here. A strange race, the humans. Closest race to Saiyan I’ve ever seen, in appearance and intelligence, but entirely without ki. Craftwise, though. Like the Drani. It was her little toy that knocked out the power. The Seer says she is of some importance to us.” His father’s eyes were cold now, like black granite caked with frost.

 

“To _you_ ,” he corrected, rising to his feet, towering over the prince. Vegeta leapt to his feet, glaring at his sire.

 

“I have not been king for a hundred years by virtue of my strength alone. I have eyes and ears everywhere and they tell me that this Earth woman is your _mate_. A _tujet_ , your mate!”

 

Vegeta scowled, not betraying the slightest iota of emotion, fortifying his mind in case his father dared try to wrest information from him. In contrast to the king’s red-faced, spitting rage, Prince Vegeta was a paragon of deadly equanimity.

 

“Who has told you these lies? I will kill them myself.”

 

“I have already erased any memory of it. The very words were acid to my ears. My son, Prince Vegeta, the Legendary reborn, smitten with a _tujet-ari_!” he spat on the floor, deepening the insult of his words by calling the woman a ‘foreign whore’ in their ancient language. Vegeta mastered the violent, possessive rage as his father heaped insults on his woman’s honor. He was stronger enough to take the throne from his father, but he needed his years of experience to win the war. Not to mention he actually gave a damn about his father’s welfare.

 

“So the whelp lied to me, then? You do not want this woman?”

 

Holding his gaze, Vegeta admitted, “I do want her. I find her attractive.”

 

“You will not mate with her. The Saiyan race will not tolerate a _tujet_ as a queen, or a half-breed as a prince. You would be wise, my son, to consider again choosing a Saiyan bride before Moontime.”

 

In a scant sentence, the king zeroed in on all of Vegeta’s fears concerning taking the woman as his. The command rankled. Vegeta knew his father’s words were true. There would be civil war if he took a foreigner as his queen, and instated their half-breed as his heir as he wished to.

 

And yet . . .

 

And yet still the hunger remained, still the accursed emotions coursed through his being at the mention of her.

 

The king calmed and another hour the two spent pouring over star maps and lists of supplies and soldiers. Vegeta sat back, allowing his father’s words to fall unnoticed around him. His mind sprinted round and round a tired track. To have the Earth woman, to mark her as his own, would put all he cared for at risk. Not having her was twisting his gut into knots and—gods help him—tearing his heart to shreds. It felt as if he was chained by both wrists and his desires were pulling him in opposite directions. Vegeta swore he would avoid her, and save himself the temptation. If she looked at him with those sad, beautiful eyes, he would be lost.

 

He excused himself as soon as was seemly, stalking towards the training grounds, intent on beating the living daylights out someone. Keen Saiyan hearing caught the tread of a soft step, his nose the maddening scent of lilac and honey. He cursed under his breath. To keep the oath he swore moments before, he would have to turn around and walk in the opposite direction. He, Prince Vegeta, fleeing from a woman!

It galled his pride.

A prince and a Saiyan did not hide from a weakling Earthling female!

 

Vegeta backed into an alcove and lay in wait for her. She was alone. Damn it all, where was Sansai? His anger swelled brilliant and hot in his belly, anger at Sansai for disobeying, at Bulma for making him feel this way and at himself because he could no more stop it than he could cease breathing. She rounded the corner, stepping cautiously in the darkness. There was little light in the palace, for Saiyan eyesight was so sharp, none was needed. Vegeta choked down a snarl. This weak woman had him wound around her finger.

 

Unable to stop himself, he reached out and closed his hand around her upper arm.

And was momentarily frozen in place by the blinding shock tearing through his system.

 

“Fuck!” he growled, releasing her arm.

 

“V—Vegeta?” her voice was quivering and frightened, rich with vulnerability.

 

“Of course it’s me! What the hell was that, woman?”

 

Gingerly, he touched her again, fingers molding to the round shape of her shoulder. When he wasn’t shocked, he dragged her into the alcove, quickly raking the area for any stray kis. He trapped her in the cage of his arms against the wall, blocking all escape with his body. A weak lamp glowed in the wall, washing her face in its greenish-blue light. Vegeta flared his nostrils, scenting her fear and the beginnings of arousal. Her voice lost its tremor and she motioned to the time-keeping device around her wrist.

 

“It’s a shock-watch, the same one I used on Nappa when I arrived here.”

 

Vegeta snorted, leaning closer until he felt the heat of her skin.

 

“A shock strong enough to stun me would have killed Nappa,” he rasped, oddly delighted by her ingenuity. Even with an errant Saiyan bodyguard, she was safe. A coy smile flirted with her lips.

 

“I may have tinkered with it a bit,” she said. Vegeta grunted.

 

“Have you ‘tinkered’ with Frieza’s device?” he growled, fighting the desire to set his lips at the pulsebeat in her throat. She must have caught the thread of his thoughts, for the breath she exhaled was shaky, her scent deep and sweet.

 

“I have. I know how to replicate it and I will reverse it very soon. I . . . I heard your father has returned.”

 

Vegeta winced at the mention of his sire.

 

“Yes. The king knows about you. I don’t know how, but he does and that makes him a danger to you.” at the look of blind panic darting across her face, Vegeta seized her by the shoulders and shook her gently.

 

“I will protect you, woman. You are mine.”

 

Caught in the mad fervor of lust, he bent and put his lips to hers in a sharp, hard peck, bruising the petal soft lips with the brand of his own. The contact broke some dam between them and her hands molded themselves to his armor, dipping low to touch his tail wrapped around his waist. He groaned and forgot restraint, yanking her against his burning body. Gently, teasingly, her mouth met his, and Vegeta experienced for the first time the warm, moist pleasure of kissing her. A quick study, he mimicked the movements of her tongue and pleasure seeped from his mouth to set his entire being afire. Desperation and desire were unfamiliar to him, but now his limbs quaked with both. He lifted her in his embrace, delighted when she wrapped her legs around his waist.

 

“You are mine and damn them all to hell,” he said breathlessly, raking a trail of kisses down her chin and throat. She laughed, a throaty sound that vibrated against his lips.

 

“Yes. I am yours. But that’s okay. Because you’re mine too.” He grunted and tore his gaze from her face. He had no intention of relinquishing his hold on her, no; she would be his for many long sweat-soaked hours. But they needed privacy, away from prying eyes. A quick flash of memory aided him. He smiled.

 

“You still have the capsule house, yes?” Blue eyes darkened in passion widened in surprise. She glanced down at her belt and stuttered, “Y—yes, I do. Why?” He grinned wickedly.

 

“Because we are going to be using its bed for the next twelve hours or so.” With that, he tightened his embrace and blasted out of the window towards the uninhabited isles in the southern seas.


	12. The Morning After

_The tail will take some getting used to,_ Bulma thought sleepily, lightly touching the chocolate brown appendage wrapped possessively around her waist. The warm, inert form curled behind her growled in response to her gentle stroke. Pure, unadulterated joy coursed through her entire being, her body mildly and pleasantly sore from the exertions of the night. Her back arched in catlike contentment, pressing together their naked lengths. She knew it would kill her to leave him now, but at least she’d die happy.

 

“Lusty wench,” purred Vegeta, his voice hoarse with sleep and passion.

 

Smiling softly, she rolled over to look at him. Planet Vegeta’s sunlight gilded him, his dark, tawny colors a vivid contrast to the starched white sheets. With unutterable tenderness, the sensitive pads of her fingertips molded to the dramatic angles of his face, as if to reassure herself that he was real and what had happened last night wasn’t a figment of her imagination. His brow twitched, the perpetual scowl he wore deepening. Rather than allow him to spoil this sweet moment, Bulma slid her hands down his body, tracing the rounded curves and ridges of his muscles in subtle invitation. He smirked, but instead of taking her up on her offer, he brushed aside her tangled blue hair and covered the mark on her neck with his smooth, hard palm.

 

“This was stupid and selfish and indulgent. You . . . you make me feel too much, woman.” Bulma recoiled at the accusation in his tone and struggled against his embrace. The languorous peace of afterglow was rapidly being replaced with all the insecurities and doubts that had plagued her for fifteen years. Trunks’ broken face from behind the glass haunted her. Holding fast, one finger curled around her chin and tilted it back.

 

“I didn’t say I regretted it. It is my greed that could be the death of us.” he sealed the words with a deep kiss and she felt her heart melt. She molded herself to him, his skin hot and smooth against hers. She felt the stiffness of his arousal prod her belly and she opened her legs to welcome him. But again, he pulled away. His heart thrummed beneath her hand, warm breath fluttering over her face.

 

“Damn it, woman, say something!” he panted, trembling with the force of his need. She growled low in her throat, wanting very much for him to burn away any thought with the brand of his touch, to stifle the words that were choking her with his tongue.

 

“What the hell do you want me to say, Vegeta?” she spat, struggling. Was she wrong to try to protect whatever fragments of her heart that still lived? _Damn you, Vegeta. You break my heart with loving you._ Bulma thought bitterly. In a blur of tangled motion, he rolled her under him and lay poised over her, tail as tight as a band of iron around her waist. His pulsing manhood hovered an inch from her entrance and she writhed, the slipperiness of arousal damp between her thighs, longing for the violent pleasure of his entry, each thrust wiping away any need but for him. A small, wry part of her mind caught the irony of this mad reversal: she was the one wanting sex and Vegeta wanted her to open up about her feelings. The anger drained from her, replaced with the thorny knot of emotions that had torn her gut all these long years: of fear and insecurity, of love and passion and desperate joy. Gentling, she framed his face with her hands.

 

“What use would it serve to tell you that I love you so much it hurts?” she whispered, her voice breaking, “We can never be together. Your own people would hate you for it and try to kill me. What will you do? I cannot leave Trunks alone. And I’d rather die than be your whore--”

 

“No! You will not die! I’ll not be without you, woman! You are _mine_!” the rusty baritone of his voice hissed the words and in one smooth, sweet movement, he thrust inside her. Bulma cried out, back arched like a bow, accepting the brutal length of him. Vegeta nipped at her chin, her throat, her shoulder, before dipping his head to tease her breast. Bulma made a soft, broken sound, her hands knotting in his thick, coarse hair. Slowing his thrusts to torturous languor, he purred, breath tickling her skin, “Yes. _Yes._ Mine. All of you. _Mine._ ”

 

 He molded his hands to the swells and planes of her body, quickening his pace. She dragged his mouth to hers, drowning all her desperate pleas and shameful begging with the taste of him, wild, heavy and surprisingly sweet, like a forbidden wine. Vegeta’s tongue augmented his assault, delving deep into her mouth. He drove her before him like a strong wind filling a ship’s sails, demanding, dominating. The world convulsed to one shining point and she broke the seal of his lips to moan as her body convulsed with spasms of pleasure. He cried out her name like a man shot through the chest and climaxed within her.

 

Bulma must have fallen asleep for a few moments, for the knock at the door jolted her from her torpor. The warm weight on her chest barely twitched and Bulma touched his back, the sun causing the sheen of sweat to glow. The sweat and oil from their skin cemented them together, their heartbeats and breaths almost perfectly in sync, as if they were one organism. His lips moved against the skin of her neck, muscled arms coiling languidly around her, “Don’t worry, woman. It’s only Sansai.”

 

“Vegeta! Shouldn’t we, you know, get dressed?”

 

A throaty chuckle vibrated from his chest into hers and he lifted his head enough to look at her, black eyes suddenly soft.

_Oh . . ._

She saw all he felt for her, the depth and gravity of it. The fluttering heart in her chest tightened at the sight of it and she gave herself up for lost.

 

“Foolish Earthling sense of propriety. Sansai’s a clever girl. She knows what we’ve been doing. But,” he pulled himself off her slowly, reluctantly, and stood, stretching. Even as she lay sated with his seed sticky on her thighs, a subterranean pang of longing struck her belly at the sight of him gloriously naked with a body any god would envy. Likewise, his eyes raked over her in a look of such honest desire that she blushed.

 

“No one should see my mate’s body but me.”

 

Bulma watched him slide into his battlesuit and remembered with some amusement their combined frustration with them last night. The skin-tight black fabric was not conducive to amorous episodes and they had spent several minutes undulating in awkward positions, like two snakes shedding their skin. Bulma padded naked over to the dresser and pulled on clean underthings followed by dark jeans and a white collared, button-down shirt of her own.

 

“S—Sire? My lady? Are you . . . decent?” came Sansai’s voice through the door. Vegeta chuckled and, clad in his battlesuit pants and boots strode over to the door and threw it open, letting in the crash and salty tang of the ocean. Sansai stood in the deep sand, dressed in the loose training pants and red tank top that were her casual dress.

 

Bulma watched from over his shoulder as Sansai, upon seeing her prince in such a state of dishabille, blushed a stunning crimson and dropped her gaze to her gold boot tips. She bowed deeply from the waist to Vegeta, then, upon sighting Bulma lingering behind him, bowed again, her tattooed wrist over her heart. The significance of the gesture was not lost on Bulma, for she had drilled Sansai about the aspects of her oath. According to Saiyan culture, Sansai now equated Bulma as Vegeta’s mate and equal. _If only all Saiyans were as accommodating,_ she thought. Rising from her genuflect, Sansai determinedly fixed her gaze on the apex of the capsule house’s doorway, monogrammed with the Capsule Corp logo.

 

“Well I know my father hasn’t sent you. He was never known for being discreet.”

 

Realizing she’d been asked a question, Sansai mastered her blush long enough to say, “Err, no Prince Vegeta. You and your lady are out of scouter range. And since only you and Kakkarot can sense ki . . .”

 

Vegeta tensed minutely and then stepped outside, glaring up into the sky. Bulma followed his gaze and saw Kakkarot levitating hundreds of feet above the capsule house, a tiny black figure drowned in royal purple sky and orange clouds. He waved and dropped down to stand beside Sansai with a cloud of red sand. His bright smile both embarrassed and amused Bulma.

 

“Good morning, Vegeta, Bulma! Man, when I saw you guys flying away so fast last night, I thought something was wrong. But when I followed you, you seemed fine. It looked like you were trying to suck each others’ faces off.” Vegeta snarled and stepped toward Kakkarot with a balled fist.

 

“Watch your mouth, you idiot! What happens between me and my mate is our business!” 

 

Like a fool, a tiny flush of pleasure darted through Bulma when he said ‘my mate.’ Like she meant something to him. She shared a grin with Sansai, knowing Vegeta was only upset that he hadn’t sensed Kakkarot as a good warrior should have. Kakkarot spread his hands in a calming gesture, then his eyes appraised the capsule house.

 

“This one’s bigger than the one you had on Namek, Bulma,” he observed.

 

“You’re right, Kakkarot. Spending weeks on end with a monk and a little boy without a single shred of privacy almost drove me insane. So as soon as I returned home, I built this one in case we ever went on any more extra-planetary adventures,” she said, not bothering to add that soon after she had finished it, Goku had died and her world burned to ashes.

 

Vegeta’s tensed form blocked the doorway and she saw the irritated twitching in his tail. Bulma nudged past Vegeta, lingering for the barest of moments when their bodies touched, before joining Kakkarot in his inspection. Judging by his smirk, he understood the message. As he came to stand beside her, Bulma flinched at a gentle, questing brush along her thigh. She looked down to find his tail winding snugly around her thigh. She smiled and ran her fingers over the soft brown fur, enjoying his low growl and smoldering glance. Sansai arched an eyebrow, the tiniest of smiles flirting with the corners of her mouth. Squinting into the bright sunlight, Vegeta folded his arms over his bare chest.

 

“ _This_ is spacious? Gods, even a third class like Kakkarot would get a larger dwelling than this when he came of age.” Kakkarot smiled sweetly at his prince.

 

“Then I thank the gods above that my prince thought me worthy of being on his squad.” The sarcastic ring of his words sounded strange in Goku’s voice.  Vegeta grunted and said, “As well you should, third class.” Bulma rolled her eyes. Sansai stepped between them, casting a sidelong glare at Kakkarot in warning. Clearly as fed up with male posturing as Bulma was, Sansai asked, “My lady, how is it you transported this house? Was it some sort of miniaturization technology?”

 

Bulma shrugged mentally. Her use of capsules was bound to raise questions eventually. With Poppa gone, she was the head of Capsule Corp and could run it how she saw fit. Too bad she hadn’t had time to encapsulate the time machine when she arrived. If she had, she would be home right now.

 

“Yes, it is, of my father’s design. It revolutionized Earth’s technology.” Vegeta’s black eyes seared into hers and his tail tightened minutely around her thigh.

 

“Indeed. They do come in handy.” A long, drinking glance passed between them, rich with the warm, unspoken secrets learned—or in their case, relearned—in the darkness amid twisted sheets. Again, Sansai’s presence cut through the thickening sexual miasma surrounding them.

 

“What are the parameters, my lady Bulma? Is there any limit to what you can miniaturize?”  Bulma shook herself; feeling little prickles of heat stab her cheeks.

 

“Well, yes and no. I can encapsulate virtually any object. For example, given enough time and the right tools, I could calibrate a capsule suited to fit the entire palace inside of it. Maybe even a city. But to my knowledge, it is impossible to encapsulate a planet.” Bulma felt a tiny inward thrill at Sansai and Kakkarot’s dumbstruck awe and Vegeta’s proud smirk.

 

“Still, the possibilities are endless! The capsules could revolutionize Saiyan culture too!” Kakkarot said, shiny with his eternal optimism.

 

“What of soldiers, slaves, allies? Do they fit in your capsules, woman?” Vegeta asked. Bulma shook her head.

 

“No, nothing living. We’ve tried. The test subjects—rats in most cases—survived with no apparent damage, but something about the shrinking and then resizing process drove them mad. It never reached human testing.”

 

“Pity. Then we could have encapsulated Kakkarot and set him free only when I was in need of diversion. But his wits are scrambled enough as it is.”

 

“Hey!” Kakkarot protested.

 

Bulma couldn’t stop the surprised titter of laughter from escaping her lips, nor stop the racing of her heart at Vegeta, his black eyes glinting in caustic humor and his lips curved in a full smile, if a bit lopsided. _What the hell,_ she thought, _it’ll probably kill me when I leave him, but for now, I’m going to love him and damn the consequences._

 

Sansai let out a rough guffaw of laughter, punching Kakkarot on the shoulder lightly.

“It was only a joke, Kakkarot,” she chided, casting a gleaming look up at him through her lashes. Bulma watched in fascination as Kakkarot’s serious face softened, his eyes shining with tenderness. Suddenly emboldened, he stepped forward and grasped Sansai’s shoulders. Bulma saw her tense and the confusion on her face.

 

“You’re so pretty when you smile like that,” he said, his tone smooth and childlike.

 

Bulma snatched a quick, furtive glance at Vegeta to find him studying the two of his warriors with an intense frown. The jealous, insecure part of her mind puzzled over it, wondering for the hundredth time what the true depth of his relationship was with Sansai. The female Saiyan shrugged off Kakkarot’s hands and lowered into a defensive crouch, her face as bleak as a thunderstorm.

 

_What a backwards race! She’s no doubt been trained from the cradle that insults are more acceptable than compliments. Poor Trunks, he wouldn’t know how to court a Saiyan!_

 

“I’ll say it once, because you are my squad-brother and friend. Don’t touch me. Unless you’re saving my life or sparring with me, don’t touch me.” her voice shook with some unnamed emotion and Bulma hated the wounded look on his face. To save them both face, Vegeta cut in.

 

“Enough squabbling! I’m guessing you didn’t come to gawk at my woman’s inventions. What news from the Capital?” both soldiers snapped to attention, trained by years of Vegeta’s gruff moods. A loud, prolonged gargle emitted from Kakkarot’s belly and Bulma smiled, grateful for the break in tension.

 

“Before we report, Sire, may we get a bite to eat? We’ve not eaten all morning . . .” Sansai asked meekly, drawing patterns in the sand with the toe of one boot. Another, more discreet growl made itself heard from Vegeta’s stomach. Two blotches of color branded his high cheekbones and he silenced Bulma’s giggle with a glare.

 

“Very well. My woman and I have worked up quite an appetite. News of any sort is best digested with food.”

 

“A Saiyan proverb?” Bulma quipped. His tail squeezed her thigh, before darting to its favored place around his waist in time to save itself from the merciless stroking of her fingers.

 

“No. Only another pearl of wisdom from the mouth of the Legendary reborn.”

**

“Your father flew into a rage when no one could find you this morning,” Sansai told him, in between bites of an Earthling dish of eggs, cheese and meat called an omelet.

 

“Even more so when he found out that Bulma was gone too,” Kakkarot added, his mouth obscenely full of half-chewed egg.  

 

Vegeta only grunted, methodically shoving slender, wavy strips of spicy meat called bacon into his mouth. His father’s reaction was part of the reason why he had left the palace with his woman instead of remaining in the spacious comfort of his own rooms. A mistake, in hindsight. He had been mad with lust last night. Hell, he still was. He had only to look at her and his body would react . . .

 

His woman bent over his shoulder to refill his mug with coffee, the hot, bitter drink he had developed a taste for in his other life. Her scent and the soft graze of her breast against his bare shoulder sent a soft burn through his brain. A soft, white hand slid discreetly over his forearm in passing, before she moved to fill Sansai’s and Kakkarot’s mugs. He uttered a soft growl of approval, his tail caressing her ankle gently. A smile touched her lips. Sansai’s voice broke through his flirtation, mildly annoyed.

 

“As the lady’s bodyguard, it was . . . unpleasant to be on the receiving end of his anger.” Vegeta frowned, an unexpected pang of guilt stabbing his belly. The thought of Sansai’s blood spilt on his account was an unpleasant one.

 

“I trust you weren’t . . . abused in any way?” he asked gruffly, struggling to mask his concern. Sansai grinned ruefully and Kakkarot answered for her, suddenly serious.

 

“She spent twenty minutes in the regen tank, Vegeta.” The prince grimaced. Twenty minutes for a warrior of Sansai’s caliber was a sound beating, but Vegeta could find no fault in the punishment. Had anyone else shirked their duty as she had, Vegeta himself would have done no different. It was foolish of Kakkarot to resent her just punishment. Vegeta made a mental note to ask Sansai what had distracted her from her duty the night before.

 

“I was lucky,” said Sansai, casting a glare at Kakkarot, “he had bigger problems than me to worry about.”

 

“And what might those be?” Vegeta cut in, trying to steer the conversation into a direction less fraught with tension.

 

“The White Fist,” Kakkarot said and Vegeta cursed fluently in Saiyago. His woman frowned, looking in askance at the three of them. Exhaling a breath through his teeth, Vegeta tersely explained.

 

“The White Fist is a network of Frieza’s spies and telepaths that were seeded throughout the Empire. They were thought to have been eradicated ten years ago.” Sansai scooped a forkful of her omelet into a crease made of buttered toast. Shoving the improvised sandwich into her mouth, she licked the butter from her fingers.

 

“Apparently we missed a few in our purges. Xenu has defected,” said she, swiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. Vegeta flinched. Another valuable ally lured like a lamb to the slaughter.

 

“Shit! No wonder my father was angry! Bad news heaped upon bad news.”

 

Vegeta glanced at his woman and saw her pallor as well as the determined set of her jaw and smirked.

A worthy mate indeed.

 

“Come. We’ve dawdled long enough,” he commanded.

 

Vegeta snapped into action, standing from the table. As Sansai helped his woman with the dishes and Kakkarot refastened his armor, Vegeta finished dressing with great care, pulling on the top half of his battlesuit, followed quickly by his armor, cape and medallion. His woman’s scent still clung to him, but Vegeta carried it proudly. His father more than likely knew already what he had been doing, so why try and hide it?

 

The small group filed out of the capsule house and Vegeta watched in fascination as the edges blurred and for an instant it seemed to fold in upon itself. A second later, all that was left was the small grey cylinder of the capsule. Grinning smugly at their wonder, his woman stalked across the flattened sand and scooped up the capsule, stowing it in her cleverly worked belt. She withdrew another and began to depress the plunger when Vegeta blurred to her side, catching her delicate wrist. Dimly, he registered that Sansai and Kakkarot rose several hundred feet in the air to give them a few more stolen moments of privacy.

 

“What, another air car? Do you want it to end up like the other one?” he purred, stroking his thumb along the pulse beat at the underside of her wrist. Her eyes darkened and Vegeta breathed deeply of her sweet scent.

 

“You flew with that scar-faced idiot on Earth. You’ve flown with Sansai. You’ll fly with me, mate of mine.”  Flicking her glorious blue hair over her shoulder she linked her arms around his neck. Vegeta growled low in his throat at the pleasure of her soft length molded to his hard one, his tail wrapping around her waist. Warm breath caressed his face, rich with coffee and cream.

 

“Just don’t drop me,” she warned softly. Vegeta smirked evilly, splaying his hands on her firm buttocks, obliterating any breath of space between their bodies.

 

“Hold on then, woman.”

 

Vegeta burst into the air, his ki thick and blue as the hottest flame around the two of them. With a squeak, his woman tightened her frail hold on him, the startled exclamation turning into a low undertone of cursing as Vegeta increased the speed. Sansai and Kakkarot fell into formation behind him and he yelled over his shoulder, “Quickly, to the Capital! There is much to do. I must train.” And to the woman he said, “I’ll train with your gravity chamber, woman, the one you made for the brat.” Eyes shining with the thrill of flight, she smiled up at him and Vegeta frowned at the catch in his chest. Gods, he was no better than Kakkarot!  

 

“Maybe I’ll give it to you if you ask nicely. You’re not the only one that has to get to work. I’m close to reversing the process with those already struck by Frieza’s ki-killer, and after that it will only be a matter of time before I can fashion a gun or a shield. We might not get time alone together for a long while.” Vegeta grunted.

 

“I’ll make time for that, woman. And so will you if you know what’s good for you.”  Surprising him, she threw her head back and laughed, spreading her arms wide to catch the wind, trusting him to hold her.

 

“Is that a threat, Prince Vegeta? Ooh, you do have it bad!” Vegeta scowled at her accurate interpretation. Since when did she—Sansai! _Girl, you’re dead meat when we spar,_ Vegeta thought darkly, glancing back to glare at her serious face.

 

“It wasn’t Sansai, Vegeta.” For an instant, Vegeta worried that the bond his other self had initiated had reformed after their night together, but the panic faded with her laughter.   

 

“When you came to live with me after Goku came back from Namek, you would insult or threaten me with such regularity that I realized it was your strange way of . . . flirting with me. So I repaid you in kind. Your people are deathly afraid of admitting something that is so simple and wonderful. I’ll say it to you, Vegeta, in small words so the Saiyan in you will hear and understand,” she held his face between her hands and all the anger and fear and every other damnable emotion she roused in him melted away.

 

“I love you,” she whispered in his ear. He could think of no caustic remark, or any fittingly dismissive words when the truth of his feelings lurked in his heart. There was no defense for her simple, heartfelt confession, and she saw his dilemma and understood. This time, the smile that curved her lips was without mirth.

 

“I get it. There are people around and I’m a . . . _tujet_. I—” she laid a hand over his heart, her voice almost lost in the roar of wind and ki.

 

“I see what you feel for me, Vegeta, I do. But I need you to say it. Please.” Vegeta’s brows drew together in a fierce scowl, the words she wanted stuck in his throat.

 

“Was last night not enough? Is my mark not enough? Gods, woman, I break every law of my caste and people to have you and you ask how I feel for you? Aren’t you satisfied?” a twinge of shame echoed inside his mind, guilty for twisting her request into an issue of trust. But she seemed placated, for she spoke no more throughout the flight.

**

His eyes opened to blurred shapes through the thick blue-green fluid of the regen tank. He saw the dark, indistinct shapes of his mother’s lab and heard the loud blaring of the tank’s alarm.  Blessedly, all the pain of the androids’ beating was gone, and he stretched his limbs experimentally, watching the tiny whirlpools created by the sweep of his hand. With a loud sucking sound, the tank began to drain and he waited until the sticky fluid had drained completely before removing the breathing apparatus that snaked like an umbilical cord between him and the machine from his mouth and nose.

 

Filled with a sense of elation at the absence of the all-consuming pain, Trunks levitated from the tank, doing several lazy loops among the snaking tubes and arching structures of the high-ceilinged lab. Setting down in the same scuffed boots and tattered pants he’d worn for two days now, he took stock. Three slanting lines of white scar tissue slashed across his stomach from where 18 had scratched him, her pinkie finger having not come in contact with his skin in the quick swipe. Two starbursts of white colored his shoulder and upper arm from the blasts, and he reached around to feel another lancing scar just above his tail spot from the shard of metal his mother had pulled out of his back.

Battered, but whole.

And a hell of a lot more powerful.

 

Trunks smirked, reaching within himself for the nub of thought that linked him to his power. Singing waves broke over him and his power level skyrocketed with no effort at all. Trunks laughed aloud and crossed the threshold to Super Saiyan just for the joy of it. The light of his aura blazed in the darkness of the lab. _I’ll kill them for sure next time! Saiyan blood comes in handy!_  

 

Trunks saw that his mother had left him a fresh set of clothes on her worktable and he powered down, swiping at the gunk caked on his cheek. The regen tank’s fluid was sticky, and powering up had only exacerbated his condition. Trunks took the fresh pants and muscle shirt and stalked to the small bathroom adjacent to his mother’s lab. The pounding spray was heaven, tickling fingers of hot water massaging his scalp. Trunks washed with care, eager to wipe away the remnants of the previous night.

 

Clean and dressed, Trunks wandered out, intent on finding his mother. Languidly relaxed from the heat of the shower, Trunks yawned. He checked the living room and found it empty. Frowning, Trunks stretched out his senses, searching for the soft glow of his mother’s life force. She was not in the house.

A soft, sick surge of panic raced through his body and he feverishly widened the scope of his search.

The bunkers below, the surrounding forest, the city, he flung as mind as far as he could, searching, _searching_ . . .

Trunks cried out in anguish.

 

“Where _are_ you, Mom?!” he yelled, racing through the rooms, looking for any sign of struggle, _anything!_   He burst into his room, tears streaming unheeded down his cheeks. On his bed were his sword sheath and the broken remnant of his weapon, as well as a small square of white paper. Upon seeing the neat shapes of his mother’s handwriting, he uttered a sob of relief. The scant sentence puzzled him. _‘Open the center icon on my computer. I love you, hun.’_  

 

His hands shook and he raced to his mother’s sleek computer in her lab. He clicked on the center icon, labeled ‘Trunks.’ The recorded image of his mother’s face engulfed the screen and a small sound escaped him. Seated in the same seat he was in now, she folded her long pale hands and smiled tentatively.

 

“Hey, sweetheart. If you’re watching this, then I’ve finished testing the machine and have gone back in time to warn Goku and the others about the androids. I know . . .” she paused, leaning forward in the chair, eyes blazing. Unconsciously, Trunks mirrored the action to catch her words.

 

“Believe me, I know that you want to kill them yourself, Trunks. If I had the strength I’d tear them apart for what they’ve done to you, to Gohan . . .” tears filled her eyes and she broke off, cursing softly and wiping the moisture on her sleeve.

 

“I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” she choked, two tears defying her will and slipping down her cheeks. Trunks swallowed hard. All his life, his mother was a pillar of strength and encouragement, never showing the slightest weakness. How often had he taken her hard-won strength for granted? A fever-bright edge of madness warmed her eyes and flattened the soft curve of her mouth.

 

“You have to understand, hun, it’s driving me _crazy_ seeing them hurt you. I can’t stand it anymore! This was not the life I dreamed for you when I carried you under my heart. You were never supposed to grow up without a father; you were never supposed to have to become a warrior so young, you were never supposed to carry home the corpse of your best friend. I have to give us a chance, Trunks. I do this for you. And for me. And for Gohan and Chi-Chi and all of us. This future should have never happened. I’ll make sure that it doesn’t. And I dare the Kais themselves to try and stop me. I’ll be back soon, I promise. I love you, Trunks, and take care.”

 

The feed stopped and Trunks let out a shaky breath. She had done it. She had bent the fabric of time and space for him. He couldn’t help but feel love and pride shine through the strange feeling of abandonment. The pain that swirled in his breast knew no logic and Trunks struggled to master the irrational anger. If only he was stronger, then his mother wouldn’t have had to go to such drastic measures. Letting out a heavy sigh of mingled frustration and loneliness, Trunks leaned his forehead against the desk and rewound the feed a handful of seconds. Over and over, his mother’s voice, as soft and gentle as a spring breeze, quieted his misgivings and soothed him to sleep.

“I love you, Trunks, and take care. I love you, Trunks, and take care. I love you, Trunks . . .”

 

 

 

 

When he woke the next morning, Trunks’ shoulder had cramped from the awkward position and there was a red mark on his forehead from the edge of the keyboard. Gnawing Saiyan hunger rippled in his belly and he rose with a bone-cracking stretch. The house was a mausoleum, with only the soft purr of machinery to break the echoing stillness. Disconcerted, he opened a music player on the computer and played his mix of songs, cranking the volume way up. The pounding of drums and screaming of abused guitars followed him as he took another shower to loosen his muscles and clear his head.

 

As he emerged, he wiped the steam from the mirror and scrutinized his appearance. His lavender hair, now dripping in large pieces, had reached an exasperating length right in his eyes, too short to pull into a ponytail. Irritated, he used one of his mother’s hair ties to fashion a top knot at the crown of his skull. Relieved of that annoyance, he peered at his reflection. The angles and shapes of his face were too sharp and catlike to be human, and Trunks imagined a copy of his face painted in black, conjuring the image of his father. His eyes were a clear, sharp blue, but within them held a loneliness and pain that even he couldn’t stomach.

 

He turned his inspection to the line of his jaw. A few lavender hairs peppered his cheeks and chin in the beginnings of a beard. He would have to start shaving soon. From what his mother told him, Saiyans were completely hairless save for on their heads, faces, and tails, so far, Trunks had inherited that gene, and felt a bit freakish at the lack of hair. The young men that stayed in the bunkers belowground nursed and boasted over the hair on their chest and arms, it was physical proof of manhood, it was _normal_. Had he not had Gohan’s reassurance and his own pride in the alienness of his nature, Trunks would have felt like a freak next to them. He twisted in front of the mirror, looking below 18’s handiwork at his tail spot. At the base of his spine rested a circular scar covered with soft brown fur, and was extremely sensitive to the touch. He wished his mother had let him keep his tail. Perhaps a hundred-foot tall giant ape would have better luck against the androids.


	13. Leave-Taking

It could have been four years or four seconds for all it mattered to her. The past four weeks had passed in a blur of delirious, guilty happiness for Bulma. Everyday, she labored tirelessly in Zohan’s lab, to reverse the effects of the ki-killer under the curious, watchful gaze of Kakkarot or Sansai. In the wee hours of the morning on the first day of the fourth week with Kakkarot snoring on the floor, she succeeded. Her first attempts were unwieldy and sloppy, but they achieved the desired result. The first step was to heal the damaged centers of their brains, which took the longest amount of time for each Saiyan harnessed ki in a slightly different way. Once Solan, her old friend from the med lab had finished the delicate process, Bulma attached electrodes to her subject and shot them full of her modified blutz waves.

It worked perfectly.

Sansai told her in the quiet, solemn way of hers that she had earned their undying loyalty in redeeming their power. The technically idiotic Saiyans were satisfied with this, but Bulma, realizing that she had found a worthy adversary in Frieza’s mastertech, immediately began operation on offensive weapons tailored for Ice Clan DNA.

 

Every night, Vegeta would sweep her away to their island in the southern seas, often still dripping from bouts in the regen tank after killing himself in the G.R. she gave him. Any grief King Vegeta would have given over the flagrant affair between this _tujet_ and the Legendary reborn quickly evaporated when Toma and all the others who had been ‘killed’ were once again soaring and sparring with their comrades. For this, Bulma was grateful. Maybe, in time, he would come to accept her . . .

 

Together, she and Vegeta relearned the language of touch, at first with a blistering passion that left them melted together, exhausted amid the wreckage of scorched sheets and sweat. But soon the urgency abated slightly and Bulma showed him the pleasures of taking their time.

He was a very good student.

In the quiet moments afterward, before sleep came to claim them, they would talk. First, Vegeta’s replies were monosyllabic or even inarticulate grunts as he prepared himself for another assault. Then, he would relax slightly, and he would tell her tersely of the stories of his people, of his struggle between the baser Saiyan nature and the culture forced on his people by circumstance, and of what he remembered of her and his life on Earth. During one such conversation, drowsy with the sound of his voice and luxuriating in the feel of his warmth against the chilly desert night air blowing in from the windows, Bulma barely heard his whispered confession.

 

“You were never second,” he growled, his lips brushing gently over the old mark on her neck. Bulma struggled against the pull of sleep, forcing her eyes open and was once more struck by his beauty, awash in the faint starlight. Pressing her hand to his cheek, she managed to stutter, “W--what?” the dramatic sweep of his brows remained unchanged, but the slanted eyes beneath them burned with some unnamed emotion. Instead of chiding her for her weakling Earthling senses, his tail tightened around her thigh, forcing her to pay attention.

 

“You were never second. Not to me, not to the brat, not to Kakkarot, not even to that idiot human you courted for so long. When he—when _I_ bonded to you, I saw your . . . your _insecurity_.” On his lips, the words sounded strange, as was the tender, ticklish stroking of his tail on her inner thigh.

 

“You thought they only cared for you if you were useful, that they all cared for something else more. With me, power; with Kakkarot, the greater good; with Trunks, Kakkarot’s brat and killing the damned tin cans,” Bulma started at his use of their son’s name and his frightening insight into her deepest, most fiercely denied anxiety. A bass chuckle rumbled through his chest and into hers. Lowering his head, he nipped her lower lip in playful scolding.

                                                                                                                   

“Idiot. It was only you. Not your machines or your cleverness, but _you_.” tears welled in her eyes and she felt his muscles coil from languid stillness to humming tension. Vegeta had never known how to deal with weeping. She forced out a laugh to calm him, staving off the tidal wave of love that threatened her control.

 

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she whispered, kissing him.

 

Bulma pressed a hand to his chest and, lazily compliant as he only was in bed, Vegeta rolled on his back carrying her on top of him. Her lips molded to the planes of his throat and chest, eager to show him without words how she loved him. His grin was heartbreakingly sweet, set in his darkly beautiful face—Lucifer before the fall. He laughed again, soft and deep and the sound of it vibrated against her lips.

 

“If this is your reaction, I’ll be sure to think up more creative insults in the future. You’ll be at my mercy.”  Bulma reared back, eyeing his growing erection with a knowing smirk. Her fingers clasped him and the smirk widened at his gasp. It gave her an intoxicating thrill, to have him hard and pulsing in her hand, one breath from begging for the pleasure only she could give him.

 

“Just who is at whose mercy here, my prince?” she purred.

 

He began to rise, flip her under him, but she stopped him with a soft, insistent hand on his belly. Though her hands shook and her body trembled with a need as great as his, she kept her fingertips deliberately light as she traced paths over his taut, dark skin. That skin shuddered under her touch, the muscles contracting to iron hardness, gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Growling in frustration, Vegeta caught one nipple between his lips, and flaming darts of pleasure winged from her breasts to her loins.

 

Bulma watched his eyes darken as she sheathed herself upon him, ebony pools latched upon her face as if she was the key to his salvation. Pleasure coiled so tightly it was almost pain. She rode him, slowly at first, then faster, sweat sheening her skin and her hair spilling upon his chest in a silky blue wave. Each stroke made him arch up, sitting almost upright as he groaned. Maddened by her erotic torture, his hands and tail wound around her bucking hips, prolonging the bliss of penetration. That pushed her over the edge into the raging sea of pleasure, her body milking his hardness and her voice calling out his name in a hoarse litany. Tense and gasping, Vegeta managed one desperate thrust before he followed, bathing her womb with his seed. All the tension seeped from them as they wrested every second of joy from each other’s bodies. His hands tangled in her hair, limbs languidly twining with hers. His voice was rough with emotion and spent passion.

 

“Bulma. Bulma. _Koui’ish shar’hah et lyca aruori_.” Her innards still pulsing gently, her clouded mind barely registered the meaning of Vegeta’s Saiyago endearment. ‘Bulma, my mate with blue hair.’                     

 

Locked in the bliss and safety of each other’s embrace, they slept. And Bulma dreamed of her son. She dreamed that he was frightened and in pain, hounded by the androids, their eyes glowing red. She woke in the small hours before dawn with Vegeta still asleep beneath her. The dream had shattered the illusion of happiness she had entertained this past month.

 

The thought of Trunks nagged like a sore in the back of her mind, a persistent knot of pain that would not heal, undaunted by Vegeta’s iron hold on her heart and body and the swelling tide of growing feelings she had for Sansai and Kakkarot. Kami, she loved them all! And the war they fought was over the battlefield of her heart, her body, her soul. Vegeta had the tools he needed to defeat Frieza . . .

 

“Ready for another round?” the smoke and honey of his voice rippled through her naked chest. She looked up. His smile was catlike and sexy, striking her core with a blast of heat. He noted the change in her eyes and the warm, unguarded expression vanished into the stern visage of a warrior.

 

“What is it, Bulma?” tears stabbed the backs of her eyes, a cry of anguish lodging in her throat. She couldn’t leave him! Gently, he curled one finger around her chin and tilted it towards him. Coal black eyes seared into hers.

 

“Did I . . . did I hurt you?” he asked. Bulma almost laughed. No, but he was hurting her now, with the gentleness in his touch, the love burning in his eyes that he could not hide, with his scent and maddening closeness . . . instead she shook her head.

 

“No, Vegeta. You didn’t hurt me. But . . .” when she paused, he tensed, readying himself for some terrible confession.

 

“But?” he repeated, the words sharp with anger.

 

“But Trunks!” she cried, holding his face close to hers, “I’ve upheld my side of the bargain, Vegeta. You promised to give me back my ship. I have to go back. Trunks needs me.” He cursed colorfully in the standard tongue as well as Saiyago, rising naked from bed and pacing back and forth across the width of the capsule house, faint blue light simmering to life around him. Bulma rose as well, dragging the sheet around her.

 

“Vegeta . . .” she said softly, pleadingly.  He didn’t seem to hear her.

 

“So that’s all this was. Gods, I am such a _fool_! Is that the way of it, romp around in bed, then ask me for a royal favor? You really should ply your trade elsewhere, woman, you were a good fuck. To think that I believed that--” She silenced his tirade with a kiss, pouring all her fury and pain into him. For an instant, he responded, matching her emotions with his own, violent and ungovernable. Then he pushed her back, flinging her with a jarring bounce back on the bed. He stood, quivering like a frightened horse, his eyes burning with warring passions. When at last he spoke, his voice was soft and deadly.

 

“Tell me, woman, is that all it was? Am I just some prick to fuck while you wait, so you can hurry back to the brat? If he’s that weak, he’s no son of mine.”

 

Some small part of her mind found this notion ridiculously funny. When he was back on Earth, had this maelstrom of doubt and fear plagued him as it had her? Had he known how she struggled with that insidious question? The mocking voice in her head told her that he was only using her, that one day she’d wake up and he’d be gone. Now, in this world, she was the one who was free to leave, but she felt no glee at her newfound position of power.

Quite the opposite.  

A smirk flitted at the corners of her mouth.

 

“I don’t know which part to refute first,” she said. Vegeta stayed where he was, watching her as if she was some dangerous, wild thing, cornered and ready to attack.

 

“I don’t know how many times you want me to say it, Vegeta. I love you. And it breaks my heart,” she fisted a hand over her chest, her voice gone hoarse with emotion. She dropped her gaze to the hem of the sheet, unable to hold his bottomless onyx stare. Bitterness laced her tone like poison.

 

“It breaks my heart to think of leaving you. Fate is one cruel bitch. To have found you again only to lose you . . . It’ll kill me this time. If not in body, than my heart will wither away and die . . .” his footfalls were nearly soundless on the carpet, and his heat was a shock, sizzling the air near her right shoulder with the force of his vitality. Bulma mustered the courage to look at him, filled with steely resolve.

 

“But I must go back,” she hissed, the vehemence in her tone surprising even her.

 

Vegeta yanked her into a smothering embrace, as if to physically prevent whatever evil force was drawing her away from him. His warmth and scent enveloped her, breaking off the painful soliloquy. She calmed herself by listening to the sound of his heartbeat beating a steady tattoo under the hard, heavy muscle and inhumanly smooth skin.

 

“Could . . . could you come back?” his voice drained of toxic hate, there was the barest note of pleading that broke her heart, “. . . and bring the brat with you? I would make you my queen, Bulma. Trunks would be my heir, the Prince of all Saiyans.” She gasped, pulling back in his embrace far enough to look at him. There were no words, nor any physical act that could adequately encompass all she felt for him. So she pressed a tender kiss over his heart, branding all her love and pride into the gesture.

 

“Oh Vegeta, oh my love . . . I would do anything to make it happen. But I don’t know what brought me here in the first place. The wormhole that linked my time with this one broke when my ship crashed, destroying any coordinates in the databanks. It was fluke, an accident that brought me here. I don’t know if I could replicate it.”

 

“Then what makes you so sure that you can get back to Trunks?”

 

She flinched, then clung tighter to him.

 

“I can’t think like that. I can’t think that I’m here in paradise with you and Kakkarot and Sansai while Trunks is all alone with those monsters trying to break his spirit and destroy his body. If I do, I’ll hate myself for leaving him and I’ll hate you for making me happy.”

 

Vegeta snorted low in his throat.

 

“Well we can’t have that. You’re a clever woman. You’ll think of something. Sansai will give you your ship in the morning.” She knew he’d forgiven her and was asking for hers as well, in his own way. She smiled, twining her arms around his neck.

 

“See? I knew there was some charm buried deep, _deep_ in there.”

 

He laughed quietly.

 

“I’ll show you charm, woman.”

 

 

 

 

When Sansai led her to the secret hangar where her ship lay in pieces the next morning, Bulma noticed that she wore no scouter. The young Saiyan seemed distracted, only answering with terse half-answers and pacing like a tiger in a cage.

 

“What’s bothering you, Sansai?” Bulma asked, concentrating on laying the pieces in precise order. Good, the hull integrity hadn’t been compromised . . .

When she snuck a glance at Sansai, she saw naked fear and pain in her black eyes. Then her chin dropped and her spiky black hair fell over her face.

 

“It’s nothing, my lady Bulma. Only . . .” there was the pause that Bulma had come to recognize when Saiyans mustered the courage to bare their innermost feelings, “The king will be sending us off-world soon. We may be sent to kill my uncle and cousin. The thought of it . . . hurts. Broly is more my brother than my cousin and Paragus . . .”

 

Bulma rose and set a hand on her armored shoulder in comfort. A small shiver ran through Sansai’s lean body, followed by a soft gasp. It took a moment for Bulma to realize she was crying. Moisture leaked from her eyes in two barely discernible trails, her teeth clenched against a sob. Bulma’s heart ached for her and she wrapped Sansai’s unresisting form in an embrace. Though they were the same height, Sansai’s shoulders hunched and Bulma’s face was buried in the musky, wild scent of her hair.

 

“Oh Sansai. Oh sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Bulma murmured over and over again. What else could she say? From what she understood from Kakkarot and Vegeta, Paragus and Broly had deserted and thus broken their oath to the throne and Planet Vegeta, a grave offense.  Sansai quickly regained control of herself.

 

“Thank you, Bulma. There’s no one else I can talk to about such things . . .” the poor girl was clearly embarrassed, pulling from her embrace and swiping the moisture from her cheeks, struggling to regain her equanimity. To her peers, such a display was tantamount to sniveling weakness. To save her pride, Bulma settled for a brusque pat on her shoulder.

 

“It’s no problem. Now, I should get to work.” Her barriers of inscrutability lowered, Bulma watched relief sluice across Sansai’s face.

 

“Of course. But I was curious about something.”

 

“Oh? What was it?” Bulma gave Sansai her full attention, wanting to promote a more stable balance between stoicism and effusive emoting.  Sansai’s eyes dropped to the gold tips of her boots, her tail flicking from side to side.

 

“Do you have an image of him—Prince Trunks? You’ve spoken so much of him in these past weeks; I’ve wondered what he looks like.” Bulma smiled at her question. Trunks had indeed been the subject of nearly every conversation in the lab, she was practically gushing with motherly pride and love.

 

“I actually do,” Bulma said, reaching for the capsule that held her most precious personal items. Deploying it, she rummaged through the pictures of her loved ones—including a rare one of Vegeta—for the most current one of Trunks.

 

“Here,” she said with a cry of triumph, handing the photograph to Sansai. She had taken it on his birthday while he was talking with Kenji, Bulma’s foreman of sorts in the bunkers. He was facing her, blue eyes intent on Kenji’s face. His lavender hair was a bit too long for her taste, falling across his forehead and the tips of his ears. With his sword across his back and his face fairly screaming ‘Vegeta,’ he had the look of a warrior, softened only by the slight, shy smile she knew as his. Bulma watched Sansai’s reaction carefully. Her son was a half-breed after all . . . instead of shock or disapproval; she seemed spellbound by the picture.

 

“His hair, his eyes . . . they’re like yours. But even an idiot like Nappa could see he’s Vegeta’s son. Even the way he carries himself is the same. He is a true prince of Saiyans.” There was an odd note in her voice, one Bulma had trouble placing. Sansai hid so much in those black eyes of hers. Almost reluctantly, Sansai handed back the picture and began a light warm-up while Bulma returned to work.         

**

His woman was leaving. As much as he hated to admit it, he was terrified by the thought. Vegeta growled, staring angrily at the door handle in Zohan’s tech sector that he’d torn off unwittingly. Fear sat ill with him, as did all the soft, foolish emotions she educed from him. Angrily, he threw the piece into a wall, shattering the hyper-news feed. Several indignant wires spat green sparks in protest.

Like a mooning boy, he had gone to the lab with the sole thought of seeing her.

And found it empty!

_Where the hell are they? By all the gods, if Sansai has abandoned her post again—_

 

Lucky for her, the girl put his harsh tutelage to use and soon appeared, having grace enough to look abashed. He had not forgotten her request to learn how to sense ki without a scouter, and while he was at it, Vegeta decided to improve the strength of her mind. Between Sansai’s ears rested many secrets that Vegeta did not want ferreted out by the White Fist or even any of his father’s pet telepaths. Since reversing the ki-killer, his woman had gained a tenuous foothold with the king, but the peace was doomed not to last. King Vegeta the twenty-eighth was a Saiyan king of old and would not stand to see a _tujet_ so close to the heir of Planet Vegeta, much less as queen. With a pang, Vegeta realized he could not keep both Bulma and his father.

 

Sansai came to greet him, leading him into the secret hangar where the woman’s machine was closeted. He sensed the turbulence in her spirit, saw her reddened eyes and guessed its cause. Words of solace stuck in his throat. What could he say? Even if it was not his hand to kill Sansai’s kin, he would have to pass judgment on the two detestable rogues. Surely Sansai didn’t begrudge him for it . . . did she? His internal debate was rendered mute when she excused herself for lunch with a curt jerk of chin. Vegeta snarled in irritation. He would have to remind her of the respect due him when they sparred.

 

But he must be careful.

 

With the help of his woman’s gravity room, his power had grown to near godlike proportions. Even his father, who was the closest to him in power, could no longer keep pace. Vegeta had nearly killed Kakkarot who was the strongest on his squad, the strongest on the entire planet next to the king and prince, when they sparred the day before. The idiot had gone to the regen tank smiling.

 

His woman lay sprawled on her back, clothed in a grease-splattered jumpsuit, tinkering with the innards of the machine above her. Holo graphics of algorithms, schematics and tools formed a jagged semicircle around her. Although his range of study had been broad and detailed, Vegeta admitted that he could barely understand half of the math.

She was whistling tunelessly as she worked and Vegeta waited a full thirty seconds before brusquely nudging her scuffed sneakers. Weakling that she was, the slight tap jarred her whole body.

 

“Watch it, Sansai! I’m not hardwiring a space pod here! These circuits are extremely delicate and--”

 

Vegeta cut her off mid-scold with another slightly harder tap, snickering to himself. With a very Saiyan growl, his woman drew herself from beneath the machine, all the while turning the air blue with her stream of creative curses. When she saw it was him, the cursing only increased twofold until she was hissing and spitting like a cat, gesturing wildly with the small soldering iron in her hand.

 

Vegeta smirked. How he loved courting her anger! Were it not for her coloring and her pathetically weak ki, he would have sworn she had Saiyan blood coursing through her veins. If King Vegeta could see her this way, he would not protest her place at his side. The old fool had become very intent on finding Vegeta a Saiyan mate by Moontime. King Vegeta even reasoned that he could take a Saiyan wife and keep ‘the blue Earth woman,’ as he called her, as his concubine. Any cubs she bore him would be accorded the position of Elite. It was a generous offer, considering the stigma against half-breeds. Vegeta smirked. But his woman would not see it so.

 

Anger made her so beautiful. Her eyes darkened, her soft, pale skin flushed with blood, her breasts heaved with the force of her passion. Her hair fell loose from its tie and spilled about her shoulders like the waves of Earth’s boundless oceans. He remembered the tickling feeling of it brushing his skin as she moved over him . . . Just looking at her heated his blood, reminding him of the hot, blissful hours they spent together in their little capsule house by the sea.  

But it wasn’t only the sex that drew him to her, though that was reason enough for him to keep her around. Hell, it would be a lot easier if it _was_ only sex.

But it wasn’t.

Gods, he was as mad about her as Kakkarot was for Sansai, only he was better at hiding it. His passion was so outrageous that he wanted to make her his queen and raise their half-breed son to the rank of Prince. His wish would tear Planet Vegeta apart and make the past three decades of struggle worthless.

 

When she was done ranting, she stood, hands fisted on her hips, waiting for him to explain himself. Vegeta cursed to himself. In his fevered need to see her and morbid musings, he had not thought of a single thing to say. What could he say?

 

“I go to my father today. We are to discuss the future course of the war.” She blinked at this abrupt change in tack and rubbed her forehead in frustration, smearing a swath of black grease across her white skin.

 

“Oooookay,” she drew out the word, looking at him as if he were a strange creature she wanted very much to understand.

 

“And you chose to interrupt my work to tell me this because why?” one manicured blue brow arched and Vegeta frowned down his nose at her. For a genius she could be extremely obtuse at times.

 

“I interrupted you, woman, because when I speak to my father, it will affect not only my entire squad, but you as well. He will send us off-planet, I’m sure. To Ookamitsu most likely. Their potentate has been wavering for longer than the Empire has been in existence. He may even send me to find those worthless oath-breakers Paragus and Broly, though Keyuka has made that his life’s pursuit. You see now how this will affect you?” her soft mouth firmed into a prim line. Her hip cocked, chin tucked flirtatiously, Vegeta recognized her saucy, you’re-not-the-boss-of-me stance. 

 

“Yes, Sansai told me as much. I will be left without my Saiyan protectors. Whatever will I do?” the sarcasm dripped from her words and Vegeta felt his own anger kindle. Did the woman not know what danger she was in?

 

“Has your power level multiplied a thousandfold since I saw you last? Because that is the only way you’d be so comfortable with the thought of me leaving.” He crossed his arms over his chest in his most forbidding posture. Her chin tilted in defiant pride, blue eyes as hard as gemstones.

 

“I’ve survived fifteen years under the thumb of monsters much more powerful than your father or any other being in this universe without anyone to protect me. I think I can manage a few days without you.” Vegeta didn’t know whether to be enraged or impressed by her moxy.

 

“What would you do? Shock him with your little watch? It’d stop an Elite like my father for a few seconds, if that.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder and pulled a sleek pistol from her belt at the small of her back, brandishing it with obvious satisfaction.

 

“I’d use this,” she said simply. Vegeta eyed the tech suspiciously, trying hard to ignore the pang of arousal in his belly. The thrill of the challenge was a song to Saiyan blood, and the woman was rife with them.  

 

“Dangerous, are you? What sort of gun is this?” he purred. She caught his change in tone and winked at him, lips curved into a sultry smile.

 

“This, Vegeta, is my new ki gun. A sleeker, cleaner version of Frieza’s ki-killer--” Vegeta flinched, looking from the gun to her. Gods, if she ever used it on his father, there would be no way he would be able to keep his people from killing her.

 

“Woman--” he began in warning, but she interrupted.

 

“I know, I know. I’m not stupid! If you’d of let me finish, I’d have shown you this.” Tilting the gun towards him, he saw a tiny switch just below the trigger guard.

 

“This switches the polarity of the blutz waves, so to speak. I don’t fry your brain with this, like Frieza’s does, I just make it so you can’t touch your power. If I flip this switch, you’ll have it back. This little baby will keep me safe.” Despite himself, Vegeta was impressed.

 

“Keep it with you always. I will see you tonight.” With that, Vegeta turned to take his leave. His father did not take kindly to being kept waiting, even for the Legendary reborn.

 

“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?” she called after him teasingly. He smirked and turned back, his red cape rustling around him like wings.

 

“If you wipe that grease off your face I might dare to come closer.”

 

The coquettish smile vanished and she gingerly touched her forehead. Feeling the slickness of grease, she smiled sheepishly and wiped her face with a clean rag.

 

“Better?” she asked, her skin a bright pink from scrubbing. With a subtle shift, Vegeta sped across the room, sweeping her into an embrace. Damn them all. His father and the Council Members could gossip all they wanted. At the end of the day, power was all that mattered and Vegeta had more than anyone in the Universe save for Frieza and few others of his race.

 

“Not quite,” he purred, leaning close, “First we need to get those pesky garments off.” She laughed, a soft, sexy sound, winding her frail arms around his neck, binding him as surely as chains.

 

“My, my, aren’t we impatient,” she whispered breathlessly. With the gentleness she taught him and a tenderness he dared not express in words, he rained kisses on her forehead, cheeks, chin, and neck. He loved the taste of her skin and the small sounds of pleasure she made. Their mouths met in a series of pliant, lazy kisses, warm and languid.

He hated the thought of leaving her.

Knowing her, she would probably get herself into some sort of trouble.

 

“Bulma . . .” he whispered, holding her tight to his chest.

 

A bright ki prickled his senses and Vegeta tore himself away to find Raditz’s large form barring the doorway. His black eyes were wide as they took in his prince and the Earthling mastertech panting, his nostrils flared to catch their mingled scents heavy with arousal. Everyone in the palace knew what was happening, his squad most of all. But knowing and seeing were two different things.

 

“Captain,” Vegeta said huskily, positioning himself in front of his woman. After several seconds of blank staring, Raditz regained control of his facial muscles, hiding whatever misgivings he had behind a mask of blank stoicism.

 

“My Prince,” he said, “your father demands your presence. We are to be briefed on our next assignment.” The petulant side of himself railed at the word ‘demand’ but he quickly quieted it. His father was strong with over two hundred years of experience, and Vegeta would obey him as any son of the Saiyan race would.

 

“Of course.” He shot a reassuring look to his woman before following the captain, her womanly scent clinging to his skin and clothes.

 

 

 

 

The Council Members all looked up at his entry, voicing their respectful greetings. Raditz took his place beside his father and Vegeta took his seat of honor at the foot of the long table. The king stood at the window, looking up at Planet Vegeta’s purple sky. Long seconds passed in silence, with the king contemplating the heavens meditatively. Vegeta refused to squirm like a cub before a thrashing, so instead he contacted Kakkarot and sent him to guard the woman until he was summoned. When the king’s voice at last broke the stillness, it was layered heavily with mixed disgust and pride.

 

“There was a time, brat, when a prince was mindful of his responsibilities. A time when he would not keep his Council waiting while he fiddled with a whore. It seems this war has robbed us of more than lives and money.”

 

Through gritted teeth, Vegeta spat, “Would you rather have our people killed, our planet destroyed, and me a slave to Frieza? The old ways led to that future, Father. We had to change or die. These changes have only made us stronger. Intelligence is a dangerous weapon, especially in Saiyan hands. Our people were nothing but clever beasts in times past, now we have strength of mind as well as strength of body.”  King Vegeta turned, his face a forbidding mask. Then, like granite cracking, he smiled, white teeth pointed and sharp.

 

“Well spoken, Prince Vegeta. Your zeal is appreciated and will be well suited for what I have in mind for you.”

 

“What is it, my king?” Vegeta met his father’s cold black gaze unflinchingly.

 

“Retake Xenu. There are secrets hidden within their databanks that could be catastrophic to our cause.”

 

The Council all spoke at once, arguing in impassioned tones. Caulipa, a grizzled female Elite stood and the others fell silent to let her speak.

 

“With all due respect, King Vegeta, what you ask is suicide. Xenu has defected to the damned lizards and our surveillance has found it overrun,” her voice was as rough and gravelly as a man’s, the delicate tissue damaged in a battle decades past.

 

“What secret is so important that you would risk Prince Vegeta’s life? Our prince, our one hope for defeating Frieza!” Another Elite demanded. The king only smirked.

 

“Would it appease your senseless fear for Prince Vegeta’s safety if I accompanied him?”

 

Vegeta arched a brow. Every since he was old enough to fight, there had been an accord between them. One would fight off-world; the other would stay and protect Planet Vegeta. Why break it now? What was he planning? His thoughts instantly flew to his woman. Was this his father’s ploy to eliminate the distraction she was to him? Idiots like Nappa were stupid enough to try. Gods, he would tear the Universe apart if they hurt her . . .

 

The king’s words only further enflamed the argument and Vegeta let the words fall around him as he puzzled through potential motivations. Lightly, lazily, he reached out with his senses, trying to glean an errant thought from his father. His father had a well-fortified mind, and by consequence, Vegeta’s efforts were frustrated. He could delve no further without risking discovery. Through the quarrel, Vegeta snuck a glance at Bardock. The third class soldier stood leaning against a pillar of black marble, his face a mask of inscrutability.

 

“What say you, Seer?”  Vegeta’s voice cut through the noise and all fell silent. Bardock pushed off from the pillar to stand with his arms crossed before the Council. There was something in his eyes that unnerved Vegeta, a weary respect and a sorrow so deep it would shatter the coldest heart.

 

“The king’s plan will be successful. I have Seen it.”

 

“Will Planet Vegeta fall?” asked Caulipa.

 

“No.”

 

“Is there no other way?” Vegeta asked. Bardock met his gaze and he was smote once more with the empty, cold gaze of one with true Sight.

 

“No. No, this is the only way,” he lifted his eyes to the king and said to them all, “Frieza and his kin are squabbling among themselves for now. All will be well until your return.” the king rose and the Council rose with him.

 

“It is settled. Gather your squad, Prince Vegeta. We leave within the hour.”

 

Although he was outwardly cool and obedient, he raged and gnashed his teeth inside. There was no way he could commission one of his squad to stay on Planet Vegeta, not without making himself vulnerable before the most power-hungry group on Planet Vegeta.

His father had trapped him well.

How could he leave her to whatever his father had planned? A thousand visions of what could befall her filled his brain, each more gruesome than the last. By the time he was standing on the launching pad, he was fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her and keep her there forever.

 

A lancing orange beam of morning sunlight seared his eyes, bringing him back to reality. For the sake of stealth, the king, prince and his squad and a select crew of Elites crowded into a small ship. As Vegeta watched his planet grow smaller and smaller in the window, his heart and mind reached out for his woman, wrapping her in the truth of his feelings. Even though she could not hear him, the words of his mental confession rang.

 

_Bulma, be safe. I love you._

 

 

 

 

It was a miracle they survived the landing.

 

Caulipa and the others had been right, of course, Xenu was crawling with Ice Clan, not to mention the Saiyans’ former allies were armed to the teeth with ki guns and charge grenades, but Xenu’s weaklings were the least of their worries. Upon landing amid the jagged, snow-dusted forestry that blanketed the planet, they were ambushed. Their ship held up admirably under the onslaught, but the Saiyans needed the hull intact to return home. The king calmly ordered the Elites to open the hatch. A sheet of red ki gun bolts engulfed them, but they dissipated harmlessly against their natural ki shields. The poor fools had been on the Empire’s side so long that they had forgotten the scope of Saiyan strength.

 

“Just a bunch of the traitorous weaklings then,” Vegeta said with a feral grin. Sansai laughed, her lithe body alive with anticipation. It had been many weeks since her last good, bloody fight.

 

“Sounds like fun!” she yelled over the noise.

 

The Elites went first, and two were dead on the spot by a charge grenade, spires of green light piercing their chestplates with ease. But Vegeta’s squad, who had spent years learning to fight together, battled like well-crafted machine. Raditz, with his size and muscle, led the attack, the point of the proverbial spear, while Keyuka and Kakkarot fought at each flank. When there was room enough to maneuver, Sansai leapt forward, spraying the lines with orbs of ki, sowing death. Vegeta and his father emerged last. King Vegeta looked at him and smiled.

 

“After you, Legendary.” Vegeta snorted at him.

 

“I’ll show you how it’s done, old man.”

 

With a bellowed battle cry, Vegeta raised his ki and flung himself into the fray. The weaklings threw blast after blast at him, screaming in terror as he batted them away and kept coming. Many broke rank and ran, only to be hemmed in by Keyuka, who blasted them to bits with relish. Ki attacks were too quick and easy, so he engaged them in hand to hand. He was surprised to find them well-versed in martial arts. One even came close to hitting him in the face. Vegeta caught the purple-skinned fist and crushed it with the slightest pressure of his fingers. While the man was howling on the ground before him, a gold blast reduced him to ash. Vegeta snarled, turning to see who had robbed him of his kill. His father’s white gloved fist emitted a tendril of smoke and he smirked, rising from his crouch and brushing ash and snow from his cape. Vegeta sneered. Why the king insisted on such ungainly regalia on the battlefield baffled him. Vegeta himself had traded his princely cape and medallion for the simple, streamlined chestplate of an Elite.  

 

“Come. The tech lab is this way.”

 

King Vegeta blasted into the sky and the rest of the Saiyans trailed behind him. Vegeta glared at his father’s back as they flew, wondering what the king had planned for his woman. A blast of red energy tore apart their formation and the king fell, spiraling with his cape fluttering around him like the wings of a wounded bird of prey towards the ground. Vegeta cursed himself for his wandering thoughts and latched onto the frozen ki signature of Ice Clan. He and Kakkarot turned to face a trio of them, while Sansai and Raditz dove to catch the king.

 

“So, the monkey king brought his brat to play,” one of them lisped. The other two laughed, a silky, tittering chatter like the wind whistling through icicles. With sharp black horns, red eyes and muscular, lizard-like tails, it was impossible for him to tell if they were male or female, his only impression was that they were monstrously strong.

 

Vegeta let out a harsh scream, ablaze with the light and heat of his power. Cupping his hands at his sides, he said, “I am Prince Vegeta, son of kings and warriors! I’ll show you how to play!” purple light coalesced in his hands, the power channeling from the center of his being in rivers of humming light. He smirked at their amazed expressions.

 

“Gallic Gun!” 

 

He unleashed his wave, flinging it at those ice cubes. His beam was met with one of theirs, the largest one having loosed a bolt of red ki. Outraged, Vegeta raised his power by minute degrees, testing the limits of his enemies’ strength. Light and heat fizzled where the beams met, like two comets colliding. His beam faltered as the other Ice Clan added another beam to its companion’s. He felt the questing probe of Kakkarot’s thoughts and snarled.

 

“This is my fight, Kakkarot! Leave me be!” he roared.

 

Distracted, the purple light of his Gallic Gun buckled, pushing him back in the air as the third joined in. Vegeta felt the force of their power bearing down upon him, eager red tongues of energy searing the air acrid, dancing fingers of electricity reaching out towards him. Beads of sweat popped on his forehead, his arms quivered with effort. Vegeta regained control of the beam and smirked as the ground warped around the Ice Clan, clods of dirt, snow and blue grass vaporizing in the heat. The four of them held, locked in a deadly standoff. He dug still deeper in the reservoir of his power, channeling more through the palms of his hands.

 

Something within him cracked, and for an instant, golden energy flooded every cell of his being, his aura blazing like a gold sun. His vision blurred. His body shook. Vegeta struggled to control the power, channel it, but it was too massive and soon slipped from his grasp. When he returned to himself, clouds of white smoke undulated under the invisible hands of the wind. As it cleared he saw a crater of dark earth and stone nearly a mile wide where the three of Frieza’s race had been. His crew clustered around him with the awed shyness one might have encountering a cornered lion.

 

“What happened?” Vegeta demanded. His father, a bit scorched around the edges from the blast, laid a hand upon his shoulder, pride glowing pure and bright in his eyes.

 

“You killed them with ease, my son. Your aura turned gold and you burned them to ashes.” Vegeta threw back his head and laughed. _So close . . . a little further and I’ll be a Super Saiyan!_

 

“ _Three_ of those damned lizards!” Raditz exclaimed, eyes round with wonder.

 

“That was amazing, Vegeta!” Kakkarot said brightly, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

 

Sansai’s voice broke through their jubilation. Her eyes averted in respect, she said, “My lords, Prince Vegeta’s power level has tripped every scouter within range. We must find what we came for and leave with all haste.”

 

“We must hurry. Our time runs short,” the king said, blazing a trail for the tech lab.

 

Weary from his near-transformation, Vegeta resorted to hand to hand as they blazed a trail of mangled corpses and spilt blood to the tiny shack of a lab. His crew fought like a savage animal, minds joined as one. Vegeta and his father, flanked by the remaining Elites, fought back to back at the head of the formation, minds open to the influx of thoughts from both Saiyan and enemy. Through the haze of beautiful combat, Vegeta caught snippets of sensation from the minds of those he killed. Raditz was foremost in their minds, for his size and mane of hair, but Keyuka’s scarred face and bellowing, ham-fisted style was a close second. Kakkarot moved so fast and killed so cleanly that his victims saw only his spiky hair hanging over a battle snarl. The half-wit actually looked frightening. Sansai did her race proud. With ferocious grace, she killed, moving like a predator of the forest, anointed with the blood of her kills.

 

The lab was a tiny dwelling carved into the side of a hill, blanketed heavily with snow. There was no horde of Ice Clan guarding it as Vegeta would have expected. No, the legions were chasing them, gathering en masse to obliterate the tiny force sent to attack them.

And without the moon!

 _Our enemies must think we are mad or stupid,_ Vegeta thought. He cast a glance at his father. _Whatever secret is tucked away in here had better be worth your life. Because that is what it will cost if any harm has come to her._

 

“Hold them off!” the king bade the Elites and Vegeta’s crew with a wave at the force bearing down upon them, “Brat, you’re with me.” As King Vegeta disappeared within the lab, Vegeta smirked at his crew. Keyuka tightened Zuki’s chain around his hand, Raditz nodded to his prince, and Kakkarot smiled like a fool, flashing the Earthling thumbs up. Sansai’s eyes were pools of dark water, her whole body taut with fear. One of the most courageous soldiers he’d ever known, afraid! She noted his change in expression and shook her head slightly, pointing at him. Vegeta smirked. _Sentimental youngling. Your emotions rule you_.             

 

“Hold fast. We will win the day,” Vegeta said calmly, before following his father. The lab was shrouded in a darkness not even his keen Saiyan eyesight could penetrate, vermin skittering just outside the reach of Vegeta’s boots. He raised his ki around his hand, illuminating the moldering corridor. Whatever secret was buried here, the Ice Clan had made no attempt to fetch it. Anger sparked hot in his belly, along with a sick fear that knotted his innards.

This was a trap!

He found his father bent at a computer similar to one the woman had in her lab on Earth. Obsolete by decades if he knew anything about technology.

 

“It’s time I had some answers, Father.”

 

Not looking up, his father said, “What do you mean, Vegeta?” the prince slammed his fist against the stone wall, causing rivulets of dirt and chunks of packed snow to stream through the riddled ceiling.

 

“I mean what the hell are we doing here? What secret did we come here for? You sold this shit to the Council, but I’m not buying it! Why did you feel the sudden need to send me off-world?” King Vegeta straightened to his full imposing height, silhouetted by the light from the door to their right. Though he only beat Vegeta out by an inch, a small part of him had always felt dwarfed by his father’s stern charisma. King Vegeta’s frown was broken by the slightest relaxation of brow and mouth.

 

“You always were too clever for your own good.”

 

Vegeta opened his mouth to say something when a soundless cry resounded across the mental plane in Sansai and Kakkarot’s voices.

 

_Vegeta, look out!_

He looked up in time to see a red blast winging toward him.

 

A blur of movement.

 

A strangled groan.

 

The warm wetness and salty stink of fresh blood.

 

Vegeta reached out with his mind in time to see through Sansai’s eyes as the lizard responsible was rent into pieces, their ice cold purple blood soaking their hands.

 

His attention snapped back to King Vegeta, sprawled on top of him, bleeding. Uttering a cry halfway between a scream and a sob, Vegeta scrambled from underneath his inert form and knelt by his side. The wound was mortal, any fool could see that. So much blood . . . already, his breaths came in hitching gasps, his face as pale as his armor.

 

“Father,” Vegeta whispered, clenching his jaw against the tidal wave of emotion.

 

Sacrifice for a single person was unheard of in Saiyan culture. One might die for his squad or for Planet Vegeta, but it was a loss of honor to waste a life for one person. And yet the King of all Saiyans had . . .

His hand gripped Vegeta’s shoulder and his eyes blazed from their deep sockets with lifetimes of emotions and sorrows. Vegeta remembered the sadness in Bardock’s eyes and hated him for not telling what was to come.  

 

“Vegeta . . . my son. It’s the only way. The only way for you to become . . . become what you were meant to be. Bardock Saw it. He swore you would live. Now I see I  . . . was a wise man to trust his Sight. I’ve done all . . . all I could by you, Vegeta. You’ve grown into a strong and intelligent warrior. The Empire will grow and prosper under you.”  A low, rattling laugh gurgled from his destroyed chest even as life ebbed from his tall form.

 

“At least . . . at least the lizard saved me the dishonor of grey hair.” Vegeta snorted, shaking his head. Selfishly, he wanted his father to linger, if only for a few more moments. _Don’t leave me, Father. I’m sorry I doubted you . . ._ the child in him whispered.

 

“Live strong . . .” even his voice was only a shadow, his soul setting aside its mortal toil. Vegeta bent his head until it touched Planet Vegeta’s seal over his father’s dying heart so the king would not see the womanish tears in his son’s eyes.

 

“Die well, Father . . .” Vegeta choked. And he was gone.

 

He felt it rising within him like a hurricane, a golden maelstrom beyond reckoning, whispering words of revenge into his ear. The entire Universe would feel his pain! The power that had seemed to intangible an hour before now filled his every cell and his heart remembered the truth of it.

He was the Legendary.

And the ice would cry out at his passing.


	14. Moontime

Not even her work could keep her mind from the world that lay beyond the snug hanger where she toiled, and the politics that ruled it. When Sansai did not return, Bulma began to worry. With great deliberation she encapsulated the time machine—still battered, but closer to functioning order than she’d dared hope for in a day’s labor—and all her tools before venturing into the hall, her hand on the butt of her pistol.

It was empty.

As were Zohan’s labs.

The same message was replaying across the hyper-news feed and for the thousandth time Bulma cursed the incomprehensible scribbles of written Saiyago.

 

“What the hell is going on?” she whispered to herself. She knew the wise thing would be to go to the rooms Vegeta had given her and stay there. _I’ll be damned if I let those monkeys bully me! I will not cower in fear of them!_ She thought, caressing her pistol lovingly.

Still, she wasn’t stupid.

 

If she were to stay in the empty halls of the tech sector, there would be nothing to stop a vengeful Elite from discreetly killing her and blaming a lab accident or even one of the Ice Clan. No, she needed people and activity. During their talks, Kakkarot was always talking about the good food to be found in the Capital beyond the palace walls and promised to take her on a tour. He had also cautioned her not to try and go alone, for there were races mingled amongst the Saiyans that would be uninhibited by the fact that she was the prince’s mate and the Saiyan’s mastertech. Some would take great relish in killing her if they knew.

 

Bulma debated back and forth in her head before at last deciding that the chance of being killed in the city was a vague possibility while the chance of being killed by a jealous Saiyan was much more likely. Word of her services to the Saiyans had spread, but the common ragamuffin in the Capital wouldn’t know a human from any other of the humanoid races save for their likeness to their Saiyan overlords. But Bulma felt frighteningly naked as she ventured through the gates and into the city without Sansai’s warm presence behind her right shoulder.

 

Planet Vegeta’s sun had set and the purple sky above was pierced by hundreds of stars, uninhibited by the lights of the Capital. Bulma sniffed at the thought of trudging on foot through the famed city and deployed the capsule containing her air-bike. Sleek, black and fast, Bulma ran her finger lightly across the fender. It had been years since she’d driven it. The only reason she had it on her belt was so she could gut any of the parts for the scrap heaps her refugees called vehicles.

 

Sitting astride her high-powered bike, she turned the ignition and shot into the air. Her eyes crinkled into crescents of happiness at the feel of the cool desert wind in her hair, the feather-light responsiveness of her tailor-made machine, the thrill of speed and motion. Inevitably, traffic grew more congested as she neared the city, and many a driver yelled imprecations at her as she zipped past, dodging lanes of vehicles like a maddened butterfly. She dipped this way and that, looking for something interesting. Large crystal panels displayed images and messages from the hyper-light news feeds and Bulma’s heart skipped a beat when a picture of Vegeta in a training form with members of his crew splashed across the screen. She slowed the bike into a hover, wishing she could read the text on the bottom of the screen. At last, a voice blasted over the speaker in choppy phrases said in a speed that was almost incomprehensible.

_‘At eleven-hundred, Prince Vegeta and crew departed for Xenu, objective unknown, ETA unknown, more as it develops . . .’_

“Please, come back alive. All of you,” she whispered, before revving her bike and continuing on.

 

Finally she alighted along a prosperous avenue, bustling with activity. Shops and vendors lined the busy street, and all sorts of races skulked about. Wistfully, Bulma remembered the hundreds of zeni she’d spent as a younger woman, her father’s credit card burning a hole in her pocket. _Wait a second!_ She checked her pocket and found a handful of high denomination _drachs_ that she had found in her room beside her breakfast plate one morning and remembered Sansai’s smug wink. A gift from Vegeta, maybe . . . probably not. Bulma snorted. As he had so succinctly put it, he preferred her without clothing, and had never cared what she’d worn as Yamcha had. Big bad baseball star, his trophy girlfriend had to look just so . . .   

 

A sweet, self-satisfied smile touched her lips. The past month had been an exercise in her selfishness. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be no better than the bratty little princess she’d been twenty years ago.

But still. . .

The stores on Planet Vegeta were a far cry from even the ritziest on Earth. Each item had its own kiosk with a full sized holo of a model in the particular item. Buttons along its base changed the size, color and even race type. If the end result pleased her, a clerk loaded it onto a floating bier programmed to follow her. There was even a cosmetics counter with every imaginable accessory. Bulma wondered devilishly if Sansai would ever let her try just a little something. 

 

As Bulma slid a dress of a deep royal blue over her head, the impossibly tall, impossibly slender clerk called Nai’lin assigned to her asked, “Would you care for any alterations, Lady Bulma?”

With a flick of his wrist, four full sized mirrors rose from the floor and Bulma criticized her appearance. Her reflection had lost all of the haunted tension that had tightened her posture, and after a month of eating gourmet multi-course meals, her curves had filled out a bit. Her hair had grown longer, all the way to the small of her back. Bulma smiled at the woman in the mirror. The guilty happiness she had basked in had lit a dusky glow underneath her skin. She looked good. And this dress made her look even better.

 

“No, it’s perfect, thank you. But do you know if there is a spa anywhere around here?” Nai’lin’s serpentine face creased in a bemused frown, his prominent pointed ears twitching in agitation. _I guess ‘spa’ doesn’t translate,_ Bulma thought ruefully.

 

“Never mind,” she said. _I’ll just treat myself to a long, hot bath in that Olympic sized pool Vegeta calls a bathtub. I swear; the scale of that palace of his is ridiculous._ Ever since reversing the ki-killer, she and Vegeta had slept—actually slept!—in his rooms in the palace instead of their capsule house by the sea. Thanking Nai’lin, Bulma took the bier of her purchases out to her bike.

 

She flew along for a while longer, following traffic regulations this time and patted herself on the back. Not only had she circumvented any evil Elite plot to kill her, she had found some great buys and had a little fun while she was at it. A good night, all in all. At what Bulma thought was some sort of stop light, a sleek air car stopped beside her, with two semi-humanoid creatures within it. The one at the wheel leaned out of the cockpit to sniff and leer at her. Glowering disapprovingly at them, she discreetly reached to the small of her back where her pistol lay tucked in her pants.

 

“Hey sugarlips. What kind are _you_? You look like one of those stinking monkeys who think they rule the Universe.” His words, laced with nasty venom, were slurred as though drunk. Beady green eyes peered from beneath a beetled brow, his face bisected by a fist of a nose. His blue skin looked sallow, orange hair bright and unnatural. The man’s companion tugged at his sleeve, fear bright in his eyes. Letting the comment against the Saiyans slide, Bulma said, “I get that all the time. I’m human actually, from Earth.”

 

“Ah, human,” said the man, though he clearly had no idea where that was, “Well since you’re not Saiyan, why don’t you and I go have some fun? A pretty little thing like you wo--”

 

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass.” Bulma interrupted, revving her bike. Why wouldn’t the damn light change? The idiot’s face contorted in fury and he lunged, reaching out to grab her arm. Bulma neatly dodged, sorely tempted to kick his teeth in. But the fact remained—there were two of them and one of her. The blinking light stayed bright and traffic lunged forward.

 

“See ya!” she yelled over her shoulder as she sped by.

Bulma didn’t count on the idiot’s persistence and the fact that his air car was made with something much more advanced than anything she could craft on Earth. He overtook her in a second and she tried to swerve and get away, but, in an unfamiliar city, she had no hope of dodging him for long.

But she tried.

 

Zipping through traffic and around buildings, Bulma felt the wind whip her cheeks and felt the hiccupping of her weakening engine. She turned another corner in blind desperation, only to find herself trapped, hemmed in by all sides by steel and stone dozens of floors above the ground. The idiot boy floated out of the car while his buddy kept the car blocking her escape. Breath heaving, Bulma drew her pistol and leveled it at him. Judging from his girth and pallor, he wasn’t very strong. And with whatever god-awful liquor that coursed through his system slowing his reflexes, Bulma could level off at least two shots before he reached her.

Plenty of time.

A grim, icy calm settled over her. If the stupid, drunken bastard was going try and have a go at her, he was in for a rude surprise.

She aimed it at him and said in her most authoritative voice, “Look, I don’t want to hurt you. This gun was built to take down something much stronger than you, so I’m not sure what it will do to you even on the lowest setting. So just leave me alone and I’ll return the favor.” His thick lips split into a sneer and he floated closer.

 

“You sure are a feisty bitch. Good. I like ‘em that way. We’re gonna--” Bulma squeezed the trigger, cutting him off mid-sentence. The green beam caught him in the chest, tearing a hole clean through him. Blue blood spurted in a torrent and he flew several feet back. Green eyes staring in disbelief, he touched the wound and whispered, ‘You bitch,’ before falling to the ground below. Filled with a gloating, triumphant power, she aimed the gun at the friend in the car and arched a brow, as if in challenge. Quaking, he clamored over into the driver’s seat, hands held up in supplication.

 

“D—don’t hurt me! I’m sorry . . . I’ll just go now . . .”

 

And he was off like a shot.

The poor fool didn’t know that her gun needed five minutes to recharge. Bulma sighed and looked down at the drunken alien she had killed. Oddly, no pity, no sorrow strummed at her heartstrings. She would sleep sound tonight even with this blood on her hands. He wouldn’t have stopped. She had tried reason, politeness, even flight, but still he’d kept coming. The only way to protect herself was to kill him.

Logic was a cold, heartless bitch.

 

“What have I become?” Bulma said aloud, looking at the corpse many feet below. _I’ll kill more if I have to. I’ll kill many more if that is what it takes to keep Trunks safe. To keep myself safe. To save the Universe itself._

 

 

 

 

The bath was just what she needed. Steam danced off the surface of the water and Bulma caught her breath as she tiptoed in, easing her aching body into the soothing waters. Her face was chapped, her hands coated with grease, her hair in windblown tangles. Being Vegeta’s bathroom, there was one bar of soap and one paste that she supposed acted as shampoo. But the servants were most helpful and foresaw her feminine needs. Alone in the dripping, echoing heat of the bathtub with her pistol within arm’s reach, Bulma swam about lazily, turning events of the day over and over in her head, mostly to keep herself from worrying. When she emerged, clean and sleepily languid, she staggered across the thick carpet to the bed, burrowing deep into the blankets against the desert chill. She fell asleep and dreamed of Vegeta glowing the gold of a Super Saiyan with worlds of pain in his eyes.

 

She woke to the feel of a naked body pressed to hers, warm and hard and familiar. Her eyes snapped open to find Vegeta’s face an inch from hers. Greenish moonlight spilled in from the skylights, illuminating the angles of his face. His eyes were inky pools under the shadow of his brow.

“Vegeta?” she whispered.

 

His arms twitched, drawing her tight against his body. Closing the inch of space between their noses, he kissed her, long and deep and sweet. Not in passion or need or play, but as if he was trying to force all his love through the touch of their mouths. She melted against him, uttering a soft, broken sound of surrender. He broke the kiss and lay still, looking at her for the longest time, as if to unlock the secrets of her heart.

 

“My father is dead and I am a Super Saiyan,” the rusty baritone of his voice broke over her, poignant in its pain and sorrow. Bulma blinked at him, her jaw slack in surprise.

 

“I killed everything that breathed on that planet to avenge my father and still . . . this pain will not cease. I—I thought he would try and take you from me. I hated him for it. He sacrificed himself for me and I . . .” Bulma wrapped her arms around him and he buried his face in her breast, cutting off the painful stream of words. Shuddering breaths tickled her skin, but there was not a single tear. Bulma made soothing noises, stroking the coarse mane of black hair. By degrees he relaxed, slackening his feverish grip into a gentle clasp. The room was quiet save for the sounds of their breathing.

 

In that stillness, Bulma offered, “I killed a man today.” Vegeta went rigid in her embrace, looking up at her through narrowed eyes, murder written in stark letters across his face. Bulma pressed a finger to his lips to stem the tide of questions and accusations. She bravely firmed under his gaze, trying hard to ignore the predatory likeness of him, his tail twitching lazily like a tiger about to pounce.

 

“He wasn’t Saiyan. I . . . I left the palace when I found out that you and the others were gone. It was the only thing I could think of to keep an Elite from trying to kill me while you were away. When I was on my way back, this idiot came onto me--” a discreet growl emitted from him.

 

“I tried to run, but he trapped me. He wasn’t going to stop . . . so I shot him. I killed him and . . . and the worst part is—I’m _glad_ he died. I felt . . . powerful. And now I feel like a monster . . .”

 

“Woman,” his tone was warm and velvety, nearly affectionate, “killing in self-defense isn’t a crime. Not on this or any other world in my Empire. You are very dangerous.” He sounded pleased and the stiffness of arousal against her belly told her he was more than a little turned on. Bulma snorted.

 

“I killed a man and you think that’s hot. You’re twisted.” He only grinned, his hands sliding over her in quivering eagerness. As he entered her and began to move, she arched up eagerly to accept him.

**

The moon was almost full.

 

A raging energy tore through him with the same feral quickening as desire, melting hot and sweet in his blood. He ran his tongue over his teeth and found his canines distended and the burning in his eyes told him they were a killing red. He took a deep breath to calm himself. His woman’s scent filled his nostrils and it was all he could do to keep from waking her and thrusting like a mad animal into her tight, liquid warmth.

Of two things he was absolutely certain: one, she could not be within a thousand kilometers of him tomorrow night and two, he could not bear the thought of losing her—to have her disappear across time and space never to be seen again.

 

What he considered doing was dangerous for them both, especially on the eve of a full moon.

 

But he had no other choice.

 

Decision made, Vegeta leaned and, willing gentleness into his limbs, brushed her wonderfully silky hair from her throat.

 

“Wake up,” he whispered, his voice at least an octave lower than normal. She stirred, rolling over to look at him.

 

“What is it, Vegeta?” she slurred, still half-asleep. Vegeta locked his arms around her, twining his legs with hers. He nuzzled the soft skin of her neck, her scent intoxicating him. An animalistic growl bubbled from deep inside him, rich with dark promise. _I must hurry, before the moon robs me of my sanity,_ he thought. Vegeta kissed the mark, then whispered, “This will hurt. I’m sorry.”

 

Without another word, he sank his canines into the base of her neck, reopening the scar. She screamed, the pained sound hurt his heart even as the animal part of his nature reveled in it. Her warm, sweet blood bubbled from the wound and he nearly lost the tenuous hold he had on his control at the taste. Her struggles were pathetically weak; her tears were cold against his skin. Vegeta focused, initiating what was forbidden to his caste, throwing the threads of his soul around hers, binding himself to her in spirit and in blood. In the rough tones of his own language, he said, _You are mine, Bulma of Earth. I claim you as my mate._ Then all conscious thought was blown away as his soul surged like a tidal wave into her, bathing her in everything he was. She saw his life unfold before her eyes. Her soul, seemingly so fragile, had all the strength and light of a sun, and he basked in her warmth.

 

When he returned to himself, they lay tangled in the same position as before under the light of the moon, her blood still warm and heavy on his tongue. The moon madness lurked, whispering lies into his ear. Pain at the half-finished bond bore a hole in the back of his brain. Vegeta closed his eyes, struggling to master the urges warring within him. Her sweet spirit wrapped around him, encouraging and loving. Her voice echoed across their connection, the words garbled. She had had no training in telepathic communication, so her words were clouded by images and sensations.  

_You bonded with me. Does this mean you love me, Vegeta?_ He looked into her blue eyes and saw her fear and confusion.

 

 _Of course, you foolish woman. Do you need me to spell it out for you?_ he said without rancor. A smile tugged at her lips.

 

 _Yes, that would be nice._ Vegeta grunted. He kissed the healed scar and whispered the three small words in her ear.  She laughed in delight, drawing his mouth to hers for a kiss.

 

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

 

Vegeta rolled his eyes. His jaw clenched. How was he to explain his predicament without looking like a begging fool? He caught the thought and sneered at it. He had bonded to her under the moon, welded their souls together for eternity and he was worried about looking foolish? She sensed his turmoil and tried to peer through the bond to see his thoughts.

 

_The bond is only half-finished, woman._

 

“There’s more?” she asked aloud. He didn’t know if it was fear or anticipation in her tone. He nodded.

 

 _Form your thoughts into words, Bulma, and send them to me. I will hear._ Her brow furrowed and she tried, with some success.

 

_What do we have to do?_

_My other self realized the danger of bonding with one who did not understand it and . . . built a wall, so to speak. You were aware of him, and felt vague impressions of his emotions, but could not communicate He_ —I— _was a coward to do so without your knowledge. Before . . . before I fought the androids in your time, I blocked myself off from you so you wouldn’t feel my pain and anger. That is why you didn’t die with me. Right now, I am bonded to you, but you are not bonded to me. If you so much as touch another man, it will cause me unspeakable pain. If you take another as your mate, it will kill me._

She wound her soft arms around him, pressing her cheek to his chest to listen to his heart. There was a pause as she marshaled her thoughts into coherence.

 

_I don’t want anyone but you. Tell me what to do._

_It’s easy,_ he said, tilting her head until her lips rested at the base of his throat, _Bite me and push your soul into me. Claim me as yours and we will be One._

“Sure,” she whispered wryly, “sounds like a piece of cake.” He chuckled. She pressed moist, sucking kisses to the skin of his neck, sending a soft burn of pleasure through him. She bit his pliant skin, and lightning bolts struck his body. He gasped. Hard hands clenched in her hair, pressing her to his throat. He arched up, eager for her to taste his blood, to drink of his essence like a Saiyan woman.

 

“Harder. Oh Bulma, _harder_.” Vegeta begged.

 

Round, human teeth sank into his throat and her tongue lapped the blood from the wound. A ragged moan tore past his lips, his body immersed in wave after wave of pleasure. He sank into her soul and drowned in her wild emotions. Her voice was clear and strong as she said; _You are mine, Vegeta. I claim you as my mate and husband._ Her love, her determination, her secret fears, all of her seeped deep inside, completing the bond into a perfect union of heart and mind.

 

Vegeta was aware of each twitch of muscle, each flutter of breath. Desire roared through him, both his and hers combined in sweltering heat. Still deeply entrenched in each other, he was shocked by how beautiful his body was to her. With loving passion, they took each other, together climbing summits of pleasure beyond imagining, seeing the beauty of themselves through the other’s eyes. As they slipped towards sleep afterward, he broke the silence, touching the bruises on her hips, thighs and shoulders.

 

“I have hurt you. Coming to your bed this close to Moontime was a mistake. You must leave before tomorrow night.” She sat up, looking deep into his face. His heart constricted at the sight of her like this, cheeks flushed, hair in glorious disarray around her shoulders.

 

“I’m fine. We’re bonded, you wouldn’t hurt me. P--please don’t send me away . . .” Vegeta stopped her pleading with a soft kiss, so gentle and loving that a few hours ago he would have berated himself for the worshipfulness of the gesture.

 

“If I come to you tomorrow night, my mate, I will kill you,” he said, stroking her hair.

 

“The moon knows no decency or restraint; every Saiyan on this planet will go gloriously mad tomorrow night. This was why my father wanted me to find a Saiyan mate before now. If I were to rut with one of them, she would bear my brat.” He laughed at her indignant squawk.

 

“We are bonded. I am immune to their scent now. In my madness, I will probably kill any who try. I will send you to Perlandra, a Saiyan colony. Only for a few days, until the moon madness ebbs. Sansai will go with you.”

 

“Why Sansai?” Bulma asked and Vegeta could sense only genuine curiosity in her mind. Vegeta frowned, winding a strand of her blue hair around his fingers. This was the last thing he wanted to discuss with his woman in bed!

 

“Kakkarot’s infatuation with Sansai has gone on long enough. She is either too stupid to see it or disinclined. The best way for him to get over it would be for him to rut with another female tomorrow night. He likes brats, and he will mate with the one who bears his.”

 

“Vegeta!” she scolded, “are you playing match-maker now? Does Kakkarot not get a say in this? And what about Sansai? This will be the first full moon she’s had as an adult.” Vegeta winced. It _was_ unfair for Sansai to be off-world for her first adult Moontime.

 

“She has a few more years before her first heat. She can wait eight years,” he snapped brusquely, ending the discussion. His woman began to protest, but he quieted her with another kiss, enflaming her passion until there was no more need for words.

**

Perlandra was a planet much like Earth, very green and much more temperate than Planet Vegeta; the magenta-hued sky was the only reminder that it was an alien world. Bulma found herself very much at home on this beautiful planet. Scorning her air-bike, Sansai scooped her up and together they flew to their accommodations. The summer palace, nestled under the shade of incredibly tall trees on gently rolling hills, was a marvel. Walking through its spacious halls, Bulma appreciated the full scope of it, the mesh of modern technology with the weathered, sun-warmed architecture. Her room was fit for a queen, large and opulent with enough gold accents to make Midas green with jealousy.

 

Her heart skipped a beat as she felt the brush of Vegeta’s mind. The bond forged between them was beautiful and thrilling. Not even light-years of distance could diminish their connection. She felt the questing probe of his thoughts and in them she sensed a concern and tenderness he would never voice. Slowly, carefully, she fed him a stream of love and peace, gentle emotions to assuage his fears. Replete in their wordless communication, Vegeta broke the silence and Bulma nearly purred in delight at the sound, much deeper and rougher than usual.

 

 _Moonrise approaches. I must block the bond so none of my madness reaches you . . . and so I don’t seek you out. Don’t do anything stupid, woman._ Bulma frowned, pushing her discontent through their link.

_I don’t want to be cut off from you. This is so . . . wonderful._ He chuckled, a rich sound that filled her heart.

 

 _Neither do I, woman. But I must, to keep you safe._ Bulma sighed and they clung to one another for a blissful moment, their souls melding so perfectly that she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. Then he pulled away, and began the task of closing himself off from her with a wall of mental energy that she had no hope of breaking.

 

Returning to herself, she found that the wonders of Perlandra dimmed when she was half a soul. Looking down from her balcony, she saw that the palace had a natural pool draining into one of its gardens. Turning and mustering a smile for Sansai, she said, “Let’s go for a swim! It’s a beautiful day.” Sansai gifted her with a full smile, all her animal white teeth gleaming.

 

“Sounds like fun,” she said, beginning to disrobe. It wasn’t until her shirt was about to join her chestplate and boots on the floor that Bulma realized what she was doing and stopped her.

 

“What are you doing, Sansai?”

 

The Saiyan girl looked up with a puzzled frown.

 

“Are we not going swimming, my lady?”

 

“We are, but what about your bathing suit?” Bulma asked, still blushing furiously.

 

“What’s that?” Sansai said gruffly, discomfited by her ignorance. Bulma pulled hers from her bag which she had retrieved from the capsule house the night before. Sansai snorted with laughter.

 

“That is supposed to protect your decency? It hardly leaves anything to the imagination.”

 

“It’s better than running around naked!” Bulma said hotly, throwing Sansai her spare suit, siren red with tiny white polka dots. Sansai shrugged and stepped into the room assigned to her to change. Bulma did likewise and they met at the edges of the pool.

 

A Saiyan in a bathing suit was a strange sight, Bulma decided. From far away, she had the look of any hundreds of women who took pride in their lean bodies. But close up, there was something unnatural about how fluidly she moved, how the sleek muscles were knit together under her inhumanly smooth skin, how the severe tilt of her features resembled those of a predator. Then, of course, there were the most obvious indicators, such as her furred, monkey-like tail and her spiky mane of hair. No, Sansai may look human in some respects, but no idiot could delude himself into thinking she was anything but dangerous.

 

Bulma let out a soft sigh of pleasure as she slipped into the clear, clean water; it felt deliciously cool against her skin under the warm sun. She lapped the pool in quick, sure strokes before floating on her back to look at the downy white clouds. Minutes passed in lazy swimming and sunning, with occasional splash fights erupting between the two of them. In the sun-drenched lull of the afternoon, Bulma hummed in contentment, looking up to find Sansai treading water nearby, half her face submerged like a crocodile. Tendrils of hair floated around her head like strands of seaweed, thick and black. Bulma laughed at the sight and playfully splashed her, offering the first foray into a new bout. Water ran in lazy beads down her face and the black eyes narrowed. As quick and quiet as a shark, she dived. When thirty seconds, then a minute passed and she did not surface, Bulma called her name but even she could hear the edge of panic sharpening her own voice.

 

A shrieking war cry echoed across the courtyard and Bulma looked up to see Sansai twenty feet in the air. Tucking into a tight ball, she fell. The resulting cannonball left Bulma seated on the smooth stone floor in an inch of water, coughing and sputtering. Sansai stood in the ankle-deep remnants of the pool, hands fisted on her hips, looking very pleased with herself. Wading towards Bulma, she said, “I win.” Bulma glared up at her, and it wasn’t until she saw the flash of contrition in Sansai’s eyes that she allowed herself to laugh. She held her hands up and said, “Okay! Okay, you win!” she scrutinized the pads of her fingers.

 

“I was getting pruny anyway. C’mon, I bet you’re hungry.”

 

“Starved!” Sansai said. Bulma’s Saiyan bodyguard beamed, offering a hand to help her up. Bulma accepted and wrung out her hair. She took stock of the dripping trees and the ankle-deep water on the patio and sighed.

 

“Don’t worry, my lady. The sun will dry it, and the pool will refill by tomorrow. We can have a rematch.” Bulma giggled nervously, imagining herself clinging to the top of one of the trees after a tidal wave. Bulma looked around for any towels and finding none, turned to Sansai. The Saiyan shrugged and laid a hand on her shoulder.

 

“Here, this works just as well.”

 

A blast of heat shrouded Bulma, a sheet of blue light encasing her for a few seconds as Sansai raised her ki around them both. Sansai pulled the power back within herself and Bulma watched in disbelief as steam wafted from her skin and hair. She reached up and found her hair in frizzy snarls, nearly the same shape as it had been when she permed it. Shuddering at the hair _faux pas_ , she hurried inside to her comb and conditioner.

 

When she emerged dressed with her locks under control, Sansai had already found the kitchen and was chowing down on what looked like chicken and rice, back in her battlesuit and armor. Bulma sat across from her at the long table and she looked around for servants or guests or anyone, really.

 

Without pausing her culinary assault, Sansai nudged a full bowl and fork toward her, slamming down a mug of foaming liquid. By now, Bulma had learned to trust Sansai’s judgment when it came to food and began eating without complaint. As she chewed, Bulma asked, “Why haven’t we seen anyone else here, Sansai? Are we alone?” not taking her eyes from her plate, Sansai groped for her mug and, finding it, guzzled three quick gulps between shoveling mouthfuls.

 

“No my lady, we are not alone. There are servants here, but Perlandran etiquette obligates them to stay hidden. As for my people, most of them returned home for the Moontime festivities.” Bulma swallowed the bite of surprisingly flavorful food with some trepidation. Did she regret not being with them—Kakkarot especially?

 

“Do . . . do you wish you were there with them, Sansai? Moontime seems like a big deal.”

 

Now, Sansai did stop eating. She set down the three-pronged fork and wiped sauce from her chin with the back of her hand. Meeting her gaze at last, Bulma saw no anger or regret in her eyes. Instead, relief stood stark in the shining black pools.

 

“No. While there is nothing more glorious than setting aside this form for the _oozaru,_ I have no wish to take a mate yet. It is my honor to protect my king’s bonded mate.” Bulma blushed. There was no hiding anything from her. Sansai dropped her gaze and mumbled, “And you’re . . .  you’re my friend.” Touched, Bulma grabbed Sansai’s hand and squeezed it, communicating her reciprocated feelings. Heat branded Sansai’s cheeks and she cleared her throat.

 

Her eyes took on the worshipful shine that Bulma had begun to associate with ‘Super Saiyan’ to Vegeta’s people. The transformation was awe-inspiring, even to Bulma who could sense no ki. Unlike Trunks, Vegeta did not need to seek a stimulus to latch the power under his control. He explained that since his mind was merged with the other Vegeta, who was a Super Saiyan as well, he knew innately how to control it. It was only the initial change that had stymied him.

 

“Besides, King Vegeta is the Legendary. And a Saiyan soldier obeys what the Legendary says.”

**

She could feel the tug of Planet Vegeta’s green moon even light-years away. A yearning knotted her innards. The moon wove its fey magic around her heart, singing ancient songs of destruction and glorious madness. A growl rose in her throat and she quickly smothered it, lest it wake her sleeping companion. She cast a glance at Bulma, her keen eyes cutting through the predawn gloom with ease. The Earth woman lay sprawled across the large bed, her beautiful hair splayed like a wave across the pillow. She made a small sound in her sleep, slurring a word that sounded like ‘Vegeta’ before burrowing deeper into the cocoon of blankets and sheets.

 

A small smile flirted with the corner of her mouth. Bulma slept like the dead. Sansai’s soft-footed errand would not wake her. Levitating to avoid the sound of footsteps on the tile, Sansai rummaged quietly through the pictures on the table, retrieved from within one of Bulma’s capsules. She found the one she was looking for and studied every angle, trying to discern what drew her. _He is King Vegeta’s son. I am bound to him by blood and honor. Surely that is why I dream of his face._

 

Dawn began to break, erasing the stars from view. Sansai turned to face it, letting the gold light wash over her, remembering the glow of King Vegeta’s Super Saiyan. Oh, his fury on Xenu had been both terrible and magnificent to behold. When all the world lay in ash before him, the only Saiyans present to witness his glory fell on their faces in reverence, even Kakkarot who had long treated their lord as one would a fellow squad-member. Surely now the war would end! Frieza’s throne of ice would melt before the power of the Legendary!

 

A disturbance of ki nosed its way through her imaginings and she cursed in Saiyago under her breath. Her tail lashed back and forth like a seething cat’s. _Shit! If only King Vegeta had more time to train me! I know so little . . ._ Sansai stuffed the photograph into her battlesuit over her heart. She padded over to the bed and shook Bulma’s shoulder. She groaned and squirmed out of Sansai’s grasp, cursing the morning for disturbing her rest as she always did. But Sansai had no patience for her antics now.

 

Something was very wrong.

 

“My lady, wake up. We must hurry.” The urgency of her tone was not lost on Bulma and she awoke without further protest. Blue eyes as boundless as an ocean met Sansai’s with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

 

“What’s going on?” she whispered, looking around fearfully. Sansai’s brow forked and she pressed her consciousness towards the disturbance, just entering Perlandra’s atmosphere at least a clique away from the nearest landing pad.

 

“I don’t know. Gather your things. We need to be ready,” she growled, her words clipped and short in her ire. To Sansai’s relief, Bulma rose immediately, dressing and hurriedly encapsulating everything she had. As she did so she asked, “Ready for what, Sansai?”

 

Sansai raised and lowered one shoulder.

 

“To fight, to flee, I don’t know. If it is Ice Clan, there are not enough Saiyans here to defend Perlandra. And--” she bit off the end of the sentence. _And if it is who I think it is I might end up dead._

 

“Hurry. It’s landed and headed this way.” Bulma shoved several capsules into her clever belt and drew her pistol.

 

“I’m ready.”

 

Sansai nodded, but was engrossed in Baga and Lettitz, two Saiyans on patrol. Their minds were muddled with all the Perlandran beer they’d imbibed last night and what Sansai sensed had a pathetically low reading on a scouter. Then—Sansai staggered back with a cry as one blast killed them both. Clutching her head she cursed and shook, bile coating her tongue. To share the mind of a comrade as he entered the void was like watching yourself die.

 

Bulma’s soft hand touched her brow and Sansai snapped to attention. Whoever they were, they were after Bulma. A quick glance at her neck told Sansai that the bonding mark was safely covered. Not as King Vegeta’s mate, then, but as the Saiyan mastertech. Together they stepped onto the terrace; the warm Perlandran wind kissed her face like the touch of a lover. Sansai looped an arm around Bulma’s fragile waist and powered up to fly, then thought better of it. She would need her arms free to fight.

 

“Take your bike. They just killed two guards. We have to hurry.” Bulma obeyed and mounted the sleek bike, revving the engine. Sansai laid a hand on her shoulder and offered a smile.

 

“My lady, no matter what happens; you keep going and don’t look back. You’re more important than I am--”

 

“Bullshit, Sansai! I’m not leaving you!” Bulma said hotly, and Sansai easily saw the stark terror in her eyes. Of what? Death? No, she was too strong to fear death. No . . . it was the fear of loss. She feared losing Sansai herself. The thought sent warmth blooming through her chest. In a world where it was thought weak to speak your heart, Bulma’s eyes had told her that she was loved. Sansai grasped both her shoulders gently.

 

“Bulma, my friend, I have sworn to protect you. Don’t make my sacrifice a vain one by trying to save me. Please. Vegeta would kill me if anything happened to you.” she said the last with a smile and Bulma laughed, tears streaming down her face.

 

“I’m not promising anything. Just stay alive and neither of us will have to worry about a thing.” 

 

Sansai flinched as—whatever it was—killed three more Saiyans.

 

“Let’s go,” she said and blasted into the air. The purring whine of the engine told her Bulma was following. _Vegar above, please let us make it to the launching pad!_ She prayed, looking over her shoulder behind them. Bubbles of energy burst on the horizon, along with the echoing rumbles of destruction.

 

“Sansai!” Bulma cried out. Sansai snapped her gaze to her charge, and saw her pointing.  Sansai looked down and what she saw broke her heart. 

 

“Hello, Sansai,” said the figure on the launching pad. Sansai landed and swallowed the grief that rose in her throat.

 

“Hello, Uncle. You’ve come a long way to die.”


	15. Betrayed

Each feature was as familiar and dear as her own: the crown of brown hair and bushy mustache, the scar over his left eye, the watchful brown eyes. Paragus. Her uncle. A traitor. The wind toyed with his flowing white cape. Sansai’s gaze flickered to one side and saw that Bulma sat idle on her air-bike, watching the scene unfold. _Run, you fool! There is more going on here than a casual visit!_ She seethed.

 

“I won’t let you take her, Paragus. I have sworn an oath to protect her.”

 

There was the barest note of trembling in her voice and Sansai grit her teeth to stifle a sob. She could not bear to call him ‘Uncle’ any longer. Not when it was her task to kill him. The lonely, raging child within her ranted and wailed, ‘Why did you abandon me? Why did you kill Zuki? _Why?’_

Paragus snickered, and Sansai saw the malice and madness boiling under the calm exterior. She felt an instant of flashing panic. What was it that Keyuka had said? _Madness runs in the blood_?

 

“You and your oaths, Sansai. If you swear any more, you won’t be able to take a shit without Prince Vegeta’s say so.”

 

“King Vegeta now. The old king died in battle and King Vegeta is the Legendary. I saw him transform myself,” Sansai took fierce, feral pleasure in the shock spreading across her once-respected uncle’s face. Then the expression faded to sneering contempt.

 

“The _Legendary_. Whatever power the sniveling whelp achieved is dust in the wind. No matter, Broly is the true Legendary.” Sansai flinched.

 

“What? What are you saying, Paragus?”

 

The gleam of madness shone through, brown eyes fever-bright. He squared his shoulders and Sansai stifled a gasp as his cape moved to one side. His arm! His right arm was gone! Following her gaze, Paragus threw back his head and laughed in manic chortles, as if delighted that he was missing a limb.

 

“King Vegeta the first spawned many cubs, Sansai. Bardock’s mate was of that heritage. And our ancestor was in the direct line of Vegeta the fifteenth.”

 

“Yes, I know. I am _kahntor_ of the squad, Paragus. Why the fuck does it matter?” Sansai snapped. Paragus continued on, unperturbed.

 

“I’m sure Bardock’s whelp Kakkarot can transform. It is within us to transform as well. Why do you think Vegeta called you all into his squad? He was afraid you would rise up and overpower him!”

 

Sansai shook her head. No, that couldn’t be possible. King Vegeta was her mentor, her liege-lord, and her friend. He wouldn’t foster her all these years out of fear that she might overpower him! The idea was laughable. Paragus laughed again, drawing her attention.

 

“Broly has transformed! His hair purple, his eyes blue, he tore himself free from the chain I used to keep him sane. He was magnificent, the blood-drunk beast of _oozaru_ caged within his original form. He ripped off my arm as if it was nothing. He will kill them all. And then he will come for you, Sansai, and together you will sire heirs of pure blood to take the throne.” Sansai recoiled in horror.

 

“No. _No!_ ” she cried, in vehement denial of the gruesome future he spun, the lies he spewed like poison. Her ki spiraled high, as bright and blue as the hottest flame.

 

“I’m stronger than you, Paragus! I’ll see you dead before you try and hurt her!”

 

Paragus waved his remaining hand in Bulma’s direction in dismissal.

 

“I don’t give a shit about Vegeta’s little tech bitch.”

 

“But I do,” the soft, silky voice broke over Sansai like the chill of a north wind. A shudder tore through her and with terrible knowing; she turned to find an Ice Clan staring her in the face, serpentine and dangerous. Self-loathing whirled like a storm inside her. She had been so focused on Paragus that she hadn’t sensed its coming even as its icy ki froze the warm Perlandran air.

 _Oh my king, I have failed you_.  

 

 _“Bulma, run!”_ Sansai cried, powering up. Dimly, Sansai heard Bulma push the little air-bike as fast as it would go towards the launching pad. The Ice Clan covered its feminine black lips with its white fingers to smother a chuckle. It raised one finger and a bead of red ki formed there. Sansai prepared her own blast, ready to counterattack.

They threw at the same time.

Sansai’s gold blast caught it across the face, charring its skin and a bead of purple blood dribbled down its chin. It’s blast . . . a crash and a cry reached her ears.

 _Oh gods!_  

 

Sansai turned to find that the Ice Clan had struck down Bulma’s bike. She lay curled in a fetal position on the ground, in a pool of red. In that horrible instant, she was dead and shining rage gave Sansai unimaginable strength. She screamed. Then the stream of power was cut off as a metal collar snapped around her neck, her scream cut off at its choking embrace. Two bracelets soon followed, clamping like manacles around her wrists. The evil chains drank her ki eagerly, draining her to a husk. The edges of her vision blackened and she fell to her knees gasping. So terribly weak . . . each beat of her heart was a struggle. Paragus smirked down at her.

 

“Handy piece of tech, isn’t it? A ki damper. Right now, you’re as weak as that little blue bitch. Don’t worry, she’s not dead. Yet.” His words echoed as if from a distance.

 

Bulma . . . alive. Thank the gods.

 

Paragus leaned down and flicked her hair from her face. Sansai lacked the strength to even bat away his hand.

 

“You shouldn’t fight it, Sansai. You’re only making it worse for yourself,” he whispered, in the gruff, half-affectionate tone she knew so well.

 

“Fuck you . . .” she whispered, her voice as soft and insubstantial as the fluffy clouds in Perlandra’s sky. Paragus only snorted.   

 

The Ice Clan returned with Bulma slung over one shoulder. She was shivering. Sansai longed to warm her with her ki, as she had on cold desert nights when Bulma slept restlessly and kicked off the blankets. But her power was beyond her, gone before she could even summon the will to concentrate. The touch of the lizard’s hand around the collar sent shards of pain spearing through her brain and frostbite was a cold burn on the skin of her neck. She screamed in agony, in rage, in fear, a weak, shrill sound. Paragus’ voice raised in anger broke through the fog of pain.

 

“We had a deal! You take the blue bitch for your little project, and I take the girl. She’s my neice!”

 

The Ice Clan snickered again, silky titters like the wind rustling a funeral shroud.

 

“You monkeys and your kinship. So messy. You forget, I am not bound as you are. It was nice doing business with you.”

 

A flash of heat and red and Paragus was shot through the chest, his blood raining down on Sansai’s huddled form.

 

Liquid fire raced up her spine and engulfed her brain as the Ice Clan grabbed her tail and dragged her by it. Her back arched, writhing away from the terrible pain lancing upward from her tail. She screamed and clawed weakly at the soil, tears of shame and pain streaming down her cheeks. The Ice Clan’s thick reptilian tail smote her across the face.

 

“Shut up,” it hissed. Normally a blow like that would hardly faze her, but with the ki dampers it cracked bones. Her blood was warm in her mouth and dotted a trail in the dirt.

 

_Vegeta . . . I’m sorry._

 

Then all she knew was darkness.

**

The buzz of the regen tank woke him from his sleep. It drained within seconds and he emerged refreshed, his mind clear for the first time in two days. At last the moon was on a waning phase, and sanity returned to the moonstruck Saiyans. The newly crowned King Vegeta looked to either side and found both of Bardock’s sons floating in the regen tanks’ healing waters. In the tank beside Raditz was the captain’s new mate, Seripa. They had nearly torn each other apart in the frenzy of mating. The tank’s readings discovered she was pregnant with a son.

 

Kakkarot was much worse off than any of them. Vegeta smirked, looking at the battered remains of their fight. The idiot had been quite irate when Sansai was chosen to guard Bulma, his Earthling temperance concealed by the moon. So Vegeta and Kakkarot had beaten the hell out of each other from two days straight—in both this form and _oozaru_.

 

The barrier of psychic energy cutting him off from his mate faltered only once, when the moon was at its zenith. He had looked up at the star that was Perlandra and thought he would fly up and up until he was where she was, his soft, blue mate, and together they would consummate their bond on a bed of stars. Kakkarot had stopped him when ice crystals began to form in his lungs. Sick with hunger and lust denied, Vegeta had unleashed his full fury on the third class. And there was a strange moment when he seemed to blaze up and match him blow for blow, before Vegeta’s power ground him to a pulp. Vegeta shrugged and sifted through his thoughts for the nub that connected him to his power. It had increased significantly during Moontime, and the bouts with Kakkarot.

 

Hunger gnawed at his belly and as he exited the med lab, a horde of servants descended upon him. He stopped their assault with a gesture and stalked to his rooms, where he ordered a massive feast. By the time he padded from the bathing room, the food sat steaming on his table. He attacked it with relish and when he was replete, he dressed carefully in the regalia that had been his father’s for nearly two hundred years. He would wear it proudly and carve out a mighty Empire to give the purple-haired brat he sired by Bulma. Prince Trunks. Vegeta smirked. It did have a nice ring to it.

 

Vegeta wandered onto the terrace, the Capital spread out beneath him. The rest of Planet Vegeta was slowly waking from their Moontime drunkenness to the dawn’s hangover. It would take at least another day before the war could resume in full force. But his people—and he, himself—were no longer a danger to his woman. With an eagerness that was a testament to the revolting weakness she called love that she roused in him, he tore down the wall of energy he’d built to close off the bond. His voice, rich with joy and longing, rang through the void.

 

_Woman! Bulma, Moontime has pass--_

 

He stopped.

Nothing but cold emptiness stretched out toward him, replacing the light and warmth and beauty that she was. A ragged cry tore from his lips and he surged forward, sick with worry and confusion. The terrible blackness that seized him nearly drove him mad. Logic nosed its way through his panic and he reasoned, if she was dead, he would have pined away and followed her by now.

No, not dead, then.

But unresponsive.

And bleeding.

Sansai he couldn’t sense at all.

He pressed into her mind and found her in the half-conscious, healing state of a regen tank. From her dull human senses he could discern little, only the barren tundra of Ice Clan nearby. Horror gripped him, painted his mouth with bile. Thoughts came unbidden from the locked corners of his mind, exploding from his other life like a tornado freed from a bottle.

 

_Cold white hands traced the lines of his juvenile body, broken and shivering on the bed of ice and broken glass. With a growl, he swatted at the hand, hating the tears that streamed down his cheeks, hating the broken bones rubbing together within his chest, and most of all, hating the creature that crouched over him. Sibilant laughter broke like water over him, serpentine and insidious._

_‘Submit, my monkey prince and I won’t hurt you anymore.  Your father and your people will be safe. I promise . . .’_

 

The vengeful, half-mad animal he’d been rose up, screaming in denial and Vegeta screamed with him. His woman, his bonded mate, in the hands of those monsters! His power sweltered, mixing indivisibly with his fear and love. Without thought or effort, he was Super Saiyan. The stone shuddered under his feet, glass behind him shattered.

 

“BULMA!” he bellowed.

 

The golden wellspring of his power knew no depth and he was its conduit. The air buckled and swirled around him, bursting into riotous golden flames. Arching fingers of electricity crackled around him as he ascended effortlessly to a new plateau of power. Snarling in rage, he burst into the air and hung above the Capital, more brilliant than the sun. His voice roared across the land, both aloud and through his mind.

 

“I am Vegeta, King of Saiyans! Frieza’s days are numbered!”

**

The planet their ship hovered over was bathed in the bluish light of a weak star. Isolated, this planet of ice and rock had spawned creatures with unimaginable power who ruled the Universe for thousands of years. The red glass of the porthole presented a distorted image of what would be their prison. With Sansai incapacitated and without anything in her capsules to fight off multiple Ice Clan of varying strength, Bulma felt the stirrings of fear in her belly. But mostly, what reigned in her heart was sympathy. For Sansai, chained and weak as she was. And for Vegeta. Kami, he would go mad when he felt her missing . . .

 

A soft moan emanated from Sansai and Bulma squeezed her gently, burying her face in the coarse, spiky hair to stifle the chattering of her teeth. Meager warmth trapped by the thick web of black hair heated Bulma’s face. Still dripping from the regen tank, the Ice Clan had dragged her kicking and screaming to this small hold where they’d thrown Sansai. The frigid cold of space wrapped around them and the two huddled together.

 

Normally, Sansai’s body heat sizzled and Bulma could stand beside her and be perfectly warm on cold desert nights. Now, with these ki-dampers on her wrists and neck, she barely had enough heat to keep her body stable. The white metal was seamless, a band of crystal bisecting the collar and shackles, glowing the pale blue of Sansai’s ki. Even with tools, Bulma had no idea how to go about removing them without hurting Sansai, every time she so much as brushed it, Sansai writhed in agony.

 

“I’m so sorry . . .” Sansai whispered, locked in the dreamy abstraction of the hypothermic.

 

“For what? You were outnumbered and they had to chain you with these _things_ because they were afraid of your power.” A wheezing grunt that could have been a chuckle burst from Sansai’s bleeding lips. They’d roughed her up pretty bad, blows of fist and tail blackening her right eye and deforming the clean line of her left cheekbone.

 

“I was worthless. I have failed. . .” Bulma gripped her harder, trying to transmit the force of her love and comfort through her hold. A persistent, nagging pain began at the base of her skull, the beginnings of a tension headache. No surprise there, at least.

 

“No, Sansai! You haven’t. There was nothing you could have done to make it go differently. Those lizards have what, three hundred, four hundred years of accumulated strength and experience against you. For gods’ sake you’re only eighteen! So you can stop beating yourself up about it!” anger sharpened her words and the soldier in Sansai quickly snapped up under the command.

 

“Yes my—no, I can’t call you that anymore. If they ever find out that you’re . . .” she broke off and glanced pointedly at her neck. Bulma shuddered at the thought. It would mean the death of both of them. And Trunks would be all alone . . .  the pain in her head intensified, and her ears rang.

 

“Their mastertech must be stumped. Why else would they kidnap me? Humph,” Bulma grunted in perfect imitation of Vegeta, with a wealth of implied disdain, “They’re losing so they try to get a technical advantage. Frieza must know of Vegeta’s transformation.”

 

“Of course he does. Are you stupid? We sent out hyper-light feeds to every corner of the galaxy. The appearance of a Super Saiyan isn’t an everyday occurrence,” Sansai snapped. Bulma glared down at her bent head. _I’ve seen my share of Super Saiyans! Goku, Gohan, Trunks, both Vegetas . . ._

 

Sansai sighed, her breath curling in white clouds.

 

“Again, I apologize. I feel . . . I feel so cold and weak and frightened. I can’t stand the thought of them hurting you. And they will if you don’t do what they say, oh they will . . .”

 

The poor girl sounded near tears. Bulma would not lie to assuage her fears, for they were very real possibilities. So she only held on tighter. Minutes stretched on, and Bulma began to drift into a half-conscious state, no longer caring about the cold or the danger. A tiny voice in her mind told her she was rapidly falling into a hypothermic coma, but she ignored it. In the shivering quiet, Sansai said, stuttering with cold, “W--we Saiyans keep a natural ki shield around our . . . bodies, even when relaxed. It p--protects us from extremes in temperature, it’s what lets us fly and levitate . . . and it destroys any pathogens that would make other races s--sick. These—dampers have robbed me of even that. I am . . . I am weaker than you are.”  

 

The words roused her from her torpor and Bulma sat up, willing life into her sluggish limbs. She concentrated on warm thoughts: of a hot mug of cocoa, a roaring fire, the blaze of Planet Vegeta’s desert sun. When she still shivered, she shrugged and turned her attention to the nagging pain in her head. She poked at it with her thoughts, trying to discern its source. She gasped.

_Vegeta!_

With clumsy speed, she shook her head to clear it and reached out tentatively for Vegeta through their connection. He surged toward her with all the blistering heat of an avenging angel, piercingly bright and golden. He filled her so completely it hurt, but the pain was sweet as heat bubbled through her viscous blood. His words fell like rain over her, some tender, some angry, some heartbreakingly afraid.  

 

Bulma! _Damn it all, woman, don’t you_ ever _block me like that again! I could barely feel your ki! Do you_ want _me to burn down the whole galaxy in my rage? Are you hurt? Have they violated you in any way? Gods, I’ll tear them apart piece by piece! What the hell happened? I send you away for two days and you get yourself captured! I should have kept you at my side, where you belong, Moontime or no. Where are you? Where is Sansai? Have they killed her? I can’t sense her at all—_

 

His thoughts and emotions swirled around her and Bulma watched them as if in the eye of a golden hurricane. In response, she gathered all of what she felt into a ball and hurled it at him: fear, uncertainty, anger, hatred, all wrapped in the overwhelming tide of her love and desire for him. His words cut off with a gasp and the tenor of his emotions gentled, a spring rain instead of a hurricane. When he spoke again, his words were wry.

 

_I’m glad you’re not Saiyan, woman. A blast like that would have killed me._

 

In spite of the awful, dangerous situation she was in, Bulma laughed. Sansai cracked open her good eye and looked up. The fear and hope in the round, black orb broke Bulma’s heart.

 

“King Vegeta . . .” she whispered, slurred in her pain and exhaustion.

 

 _You’ve ascended again, haven’t you, Vegeta? I can feel it._ Surprise and pride ebbed through the connection from him, along with a whispering undercurrent of comfort and love. He sensed how cold she was and his heat filled her until she felt as if there was a furnace inside her, bright and hot. Sansai huddled closer, feeding off the warmth like a dying flower drinking in the sun. 

 

 _I have._ He answered after a moment. _But tell me, woman, are you all right?_ His concern made her heart rejoice.

 

 _I’m fine. Sansai’s a little banged up though. Paragus was in league with the Ice Clan. They ambushed us and clapped Sansai in some kind of ki damper._ His anger stoked hot, spiraling up in riotous flames.

Damn _that thrice-blasted traitor! He will be the first to die when I find you._

_He’s already dead. The deal was that Frieza’s buddies take me for some kind of project and Paragus take Sansai as Broly’s bride. It seems that he’s transformed too, but not a Super Saiyan. His power is . . . different somehow. Anyway, the Ice Clan killed Paragus and took us both._  

 

There was a contemplative silence on Vegeta’s side. Bulma felt his feral satisfaction at the manner of Paragus’ death, his disgust at the dead traitor’s designs for Sansai, and his—what? Worry? Curiosity? Jealousy? at Broly’s transformation. The knot of his emotions was so convoluted that she had difficulty deciphering them. All this passed between them within seconds.

 

Bulma was privy to the sharp, icy workings of his tactician’s mind, analyzing the situation and tilting it to observe every angle and she wondered if Trunks had similar mental arguments within himself when thinking hard.

 

 _Why would they want Sansai? She is a powerful warrior, one of my squad, slayer of one of Frieza’s pet Ginyus, but why not just kill her? It is not their habit to take Saiyans alive. It bit them in the ass last time._ Bulma could hear the proud smirk in his voice and as he spoke, he fed her the mental images of the first Super Saiyan destroying the Ice Clan cities on their homeworld centuries earlier, as Vegeta had on Xenu.

 

 _Ice Clan have long memories. I can think of only two options and neither of them good. One, they plan to use her in some god-awful experiment. Since they can’t transform as we do—either into a Super Saiyan or_ oozaru _, they might try and discover how. The second is that they suspect what you are to me and will torture her until she tells them._ A shudder ran through her at the thought and she held Sansai all the tighter.

 

_She is strong and loyal. Sansai would never betray you, she loves you too much._

 

Bulma stifled a gasp at the knot of emotions he held for Sansai, all of which he revealed to her. Before bonding, Bulma knew that Vegeta was a very deep-feeling man, though there were only a few he chose to express. But the depth and scope of them surprised even her; she drowned in them. Tears welled in her eyes at the beauty and wonder of the bond between them.  Through his eyes, she saw the catlike lines of Sansai’s face softened in childhood, the serious eight year old who sparred with her cousin with all the ferocity of a lioness. Mutual affection and respect was cemented by hundreds of shared battles, the trust of comrades, as well as an oath of blood and honor. Never again would Bulma wonder if Sansai was a potential rival for Vegeta. If anything his feelings for her were paternal, without the slightest shred of romance. Gruffly, he cut off the flow of ‘soft’ memories and returned to the task at hand.

 

_If she listened to me at all during training, she’ll bear up just fine until I find you. Their planet is concealed as well, if not better than Planet Vegeta. All the known coordinates have been changed or damaged. It will take some time._

 

He wrapped her in the golden heat of his spirit, and she saw him in his ascended state, hair in golden spikes sharp enough to impale, eyes several shades brighter, electricity crackling around him. Her heart quivered in awe.

 

_Be strong, my mate. I will be with you soon._

**

The Planet of Ice and Darkness, as named by the Saiyans, spent ten of the thirteen months of its revolution cloaked in murky twilight. A barren tundra bereft of any flora or fauna, only the Ice Clan cities lorded over the snowy landscape in jagged spires, living ice emitting a soft blue glow. Bulma was given a thermal suit to protect her delicate human skin, as well as a thick coat and wrap for her head. For this, Sansai dredged up a grudging gratefulness. Sansai was their prisoner, but Bulma was a guest. And even Ice Clan honored the law of hospitality.

 

As soon as they exited the ship, they were separated. Bulma was slung over the shoulder of the larger Ice Clan who captured them and taken kicking and cursing, while Sansai was ‘escorted’ to the prison cells below ground. Since Bulma was not being maltreated, Sansai cooperated to salvage her dignity. Weeping like a brat half her age while being dragged by her tail was a memory she longed to erase. As long as the bones in her legs were intact, she would walk on her own feet.

 

Her breath misted in the air, and she shivered uncontrollably. Her face throbbed with pain and the dried crust from her split lip broke open as she snarled.  Her eyes fell to the fetters around her wrists and impotent rage filled her. She tripped over a rough patch of ice and fell to her knees. Pain stung the tender skin underneath her battlesuit. Her weakness was worse than any torture upon her body. _Stupid, awkward,_ fragile _. . . I’m useless . . ._ Tears welled in her eyes. When any movement on her part was not forthcoming, the Ice Clan grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her the remaining steps, muttering to itself about ‘the damned smelly monkeys.’

 

Sansai swatted at him, trying to dislodge the immovable grip. Then she was sailing through the air, skittering across the ice into her cell. She cried out as she slammed into the wall, as smooth as glass. There was a bewildering impression of ice and steel, cold and hard, and the suffocating feeling being unable to see the sky. Dimly, she heard the soft footfalls of her escort leaving.

 

Scrabbling to her knees, Sansai focused. The cell was roughly ten by eight paces, all ice polished to mirror brightness, with bars of carbonized steel she couldn’t have bent even at full strength. And . . . she stifled a scream at the sight of full skeletons of a hundred races built in the walls and ceiling, some pale hands reaching from the ice as if in supplication.

 

“Admiring the artwork?”

 

The voice was the typical serpentine lisp, but was decidedly more masculine, rich with tones of mockery and amusement. Sansai turned to see her jailer standing beyond the bars. It was tall by Ice Clan standards, about as tall as Nappa, with a thick white tail nearly as long as Sansai was tall. It had no horns, only a polished alabaster skull with a purple jewel affixed on his brow over the narrow red eyes, a sign of rank, she knew. What was it doing here, in the bowels of the Capital’s prisons?

 

“What is your name, monkey?” Sansai mustered all her hate and pushed it into her eyes. She staggered to her feet and lifted her chin in defiance.

 

“I am Sansai daughter of Aspar and Negi of the second class. I am servant to King Vegeta and the Saiyan Empire. Who are _you_?” she spat with all the disdain she could. He only seemed amused which only infuriated her further.

 

“I am Zul.”

 

“Zool?” Sansai said, repeating the unfamiliar name. The corner of his black mouth twitched.

 

“Yes, monkey. Zul. I used to be the Lord of Frieza’s army, second only to his Rakashi-jin catamite, Zarbon. But he needed someone to blame for Xenu, and I was the only one who survived.”

 

Sansai frowned. All of the scouters had said there was nothing alive on the planet except for King Vegeta’s squad and the two remaining Elites. It troubled her that they had missed this Zul, commander of the army. Now he did smile; a self-congratulatory smile that praised his own cleverness.

 

“I was in orbit over Xenu. We Ice Clan can survive for several days in space, so I waited until you left before returning to my lord. What do I get for my long years of service? He killed my offspring who I poured five hundred years into raising and sent me here to guard a chained animal!”

A growl bubbled from Sansai’s lips.

 

“Take off these dampers and I’ll show you how much of an animal I am!” hissed Sansai. Zul cut off his tirade and snickered.

 

“You’re a feisty bitch, I’ll give you that. I don’t know if Hyul is ready for you. We’ll find out tomorrow.”

 

With that, Zul produced a steaming tray, piled high with Saiyan-sized portions of food and slid it across the floor to her. Sansai eyed it suspiciously even as the smell twined around her senses with exquisite potency. Though her ki was shackled, her Saiyan hunger had not diminished. If there was poison nestled between bites, Sansai wouldn’t have noticed.

It was delicious.

Mouth garbled with food, she asked, “Why . . . why are you feeding me?” Zul’s elegant lip was curled into a disgusted snarl and Sansai remembered that they didn’t eat. Any nutrients they needed they drank powdered in Arlian wine. His voice caught her attention, turning the hot food to ash in her mouth.

 

“Hyul likes his subjects healthy before they’re broken.”


	16. Futures Collide

To her surprise, Bulma was treated with a wary sort of courtesy by the Ice Clan. The room she was given was spacious with a temperature control system warming it to a pleasant heat. Two servants, humanoids with cat faces and blue fur, took her wrap and bustled soft-footed to fetch her a hot meal. A small shudder ran through her at the thought of what Sansai was going through and she turned over wild escape plans in her head. All ended in death. No, for now, the reality was she was stuck on a frigid alien planet crawling with creatures many hundreds of times more powerful than she. Her lone protector was chained in a prison, and her mate was many light-years away . . .

 _Vegeta . . ._ she whispered, words laced with terrible yearning.

 _I am here, Bulma._ Her name slid over her skin like a caress. Across their connection, Vegeta continued to supply his own sweltering heat, along with whispering tendrils of memory, sweat-soaked skin and rumpled sheets, scorching desire turning her innards to water. It was as distracting as it was arousing.

 

 _Vegeta!_ she hissed through their connection, _Would you stop that? They might notice if I start sweating and moaning like a horny teenager!_

 

His laughter rang rich and hearty in her head, taking an evil delight in her discomfiture.

 

_You were cold, woman. What better way to warm you than with memories of me?_

 

Bulma rolled her eyes at his ego, ignoring the tiny voice that told her he was right.

 

_Back off a bit. I can’t think with you in my head. I’ll try and find out why they want me here. And try and check in with Sansai. I’m worried about what they’ll do to her._

His amusement mellowed, plaintive strains of melancholy and worry tangling with pride and frustration.

 

_It doesn’t work that way, woman. She is too far from me. Even with you as a touchstone, I cannot sense her ki. Sifting through the minds on that world would be too dangerous. I will . . . ‘back off’ as you say. But remember, I am here._

 

Despite it all, she smiled. If she still knelt to gods, she would thank them for the bond. It was beautiful beyond words. She pushed all she felt through their link, smothering him in an enveloping blanket of her love.

 

 _Always, Vegeta. I love you._ And her heart rejoiced at his reply, gruff and uncomfortable yet.

 

_And . . . I you, woman._

 

As soon as she finished eating and bathing, a slender Ice Clan entered and demanded for her to follow. Instead of being forced into a lab, or even a little chat with Frieza himself as she expected, Bulma was led by the Ice Clan and one of the blue servants, who she learned were Perlandran, to a royal suite as opulent as Vegeta’s.

 

“Wait here,” the servant said, the standard tongue coarsened by the heavy, rolling accent.

 

“And keep your hands to yourself, Earthling. The mastertech will not take kindly to you pawing his things,” warned the Ice Clan. With that, the heavy door, made entirely of an opaque, green-hued ice, slammed shut. White vapor, like warming liquid nitrogen floated across the door’s surface and Bulma wondered why it didn’t melt in the heat of the temperature control system.

 

Curious, she turned to appraise the room of her rival. It was clean and well-appointed, the innards of dozens of gadgets sprawled across a long worktable. Bulma padded across the thick carpet, picking up items at random before setting them down. There were more similarities between her and this faceless mastertech guy than she thought. The tech she saw was functional, but there was the same penchant for sleek flair that stuck a familiar chord. Disturbed, Bulma backed away from the worktable and cursed as she bumped something. She looked down to find a broken picture frame facedown on the floor. With some wryness, she wondered if the Ice Clan had been serious in its threat.

 

Bulma bent and plucked the frame from the shards of broken glass gingerly. She turned over the frame and there was no image or words violent enough to describe her shock. Gooseflesh rose on her skin and she struggled to shield her panic from Vegeta. If he felt it, he would rush in, ready to fight and she still wasn’t sure if she was crazy or not. A voice, recognizable yet laced with tones of malice, fell over her, calm and sharp with mockery.

 

“Hello Bulma. It’s good to finally meet you.”

 

She turned slowly. The figure stood, arms crossed and leaning against the doorjamb, eyes downcast in thoughtful arrogance. Blue eyes lifted to meet blue eyes and Bulma felt a sneaking weakness in her knees and the picture of her Momma and Poppa fell to the ground from nerveless fingers. For the face staring at her was her own.

Herself.

The Ice Clan mastertech, designer of the ki-killer, plague of all she loved, was _herself_ , the Bulma born in this time, as hard as the ice that encased the city. The other Bulma smiled a mirthless Sphinx’s smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

 

“A bit of a shock, isn’t it? Do sit down, before you faint,” the words were so glib and nonchalant, Bulma wondered in the tiny part of her mind that could still think why this other Bulma was so _un-_ surprised. Bulma sank into the deep captain’s chair in front of the worktable, an almost exact replica of the one she had in her office at home.

 

The other Bulma emerged from the shadows and Bulma gasped at the disfiguring scar running from her jaw down her neck and disappearing under the thermal suit she wore, branded with Frieza’s insignia. She tapped the tip of the scar with one soot-stained fingertip. Again, that Sphinx’s smile touched her lips.

 

“Ugly thing, isn’t it? The Namek’s handiwork. You know him, I suppose, as King Piccolo.” As realization dawned on Bulma’s face, her other self laughed softly.

 

“He took over the world when I was sixteen. When I tracked down the dragonballs, he enslaved me by threatening to kill . . .” pain rippled across her face like a stone thrown into a smooth pond. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

 

“My loved ones. He crushed the dragonballs into dormancy so no one could dethrone him with a wish and killed Kami and Popo. Then he killed them all anyway, Momma, Poppa . . . Brandon and my--” she broke off, then finished with a gleam of vengeful glee, “I’ll never forget the look on his face before Frieza ripped off his head. He couldn’t regenerate _that_ , could he?”

 

As she spewed her venom, Bulma’s mind whirred. Without Goku there to stop him, Piccolo had succeeded in global domination. Kami’s fate had always been independent of Goku’s, an old, benevolent guide.  Also, with no Goku, Bulma would have never met Krillin or Yamcha or any of them. No Vegeta, no Yamcha, yet she had loved this Brandon. The loss of him had hardened her. This Bulma’s life was bitter shadow to even Bulma’s own bleak future. Digesting this, questions frothed forth with the strains of pity.

 

“How did you know about . . . me?” she asked. The glassy, contemplative look fled and the gelid intelligence in her other self scorched her. The other Bulma reached up and tugged a strand of her short blue hair.

 

“How many blue-haired, Earthling geniuses do you think there are?  Besides, the Saiyans aren’t exactly the subtle type. When you reversed my ki-killer, your image leaked out all over the galaxy.”  Overcoming her shock, Bulma stood toe to toe with her other self, glaring into the same blue eyes.

 

“Why do you hate the Saiyans? Why do you have my bodyguard locked up in ki dampers like an animal? Why did you kidnap me? Why do Ice Clan not know you’re . . .”

 

The other Bulma laughed, hoarse and hard, cutting off the tirade with a brusque gesture.  Turning her back, she sauntered over to a stand and poured two glasses of what looked like wine. Taking the seat across from her, she handed Bulma a glass and said, “Arlian wine. Ice Clan have a fondness for it.” By way of demonstration, the other Bulma took a gulp. Gingerly, Bulma mimicked her. The wine scorched like brandy, burning the taste of tangy fruit on her tongue. She coughed and sputtered in surprise and looked through the film of tears to see her other self giggling.

 

“It takes some getting used to. But better than coffee, I’d say.” For a moment silence rang in the room before the other Bulma said, “I’ll make you a deal. I will answer two questions, with complete honesty, then you must answer two in the same manner. Are we agreed?”

 

Bulma smirked. Though their lives were drastically different, the two incarnations of herself had the uncanny ability to achieve their goals cleverly. Quickly, she whittled down her list to the most pertinent two.

 

“All right. Me first. What are your motivations for helping Frieza take over the galaxy?” she tried to keep the rancor and disgust from her voice and failed. There was no change in the cool facade and she took a sip of her wine before answering.

 

“In exchange for killing the Namek, I promised Frieza that I would make him stronger. You see, his face was still busted in from the little monkey king’s haymaker. He was so pleased with the change that he brought me here, and lavished me with wealth and gifts. I’ve nothing against the Saiyans, or your bodyguard, they were just in my way. It’s nothing personal.”

 

So caught up in strange image she painted, Bulma blurted, “But what about Frieza? Aren’t you afraid he’ll kill you once the war is over?” the other Bulma waved off the comment with a noncommittal shrug.

 

“If I am clever enough to discover a way to rob even the strongest ki-wielders of their power interminably, Frieza is terrified—and not without reason—of what I could do to him and his people. It is a game he and I play. I will only stay alive as long as I’m useful, and Frieza does well not to cross me. Now, those were your two. Answer me this: What are you doing here?”

 

Bulma thought carefully before answering, looking into her cup of blood-red wine. It would be unwise to mention her relationship to the Saiyans, especially Vegeta, and Gero and the time machine were out of the question . . .

 

“In my time, two androids have killed all that I love, save for my son. I . . . I hoped to change my future but . . .” Bulma mimicked the shrug. She could feel hard blue eyes boring into her bent head and squirmed, unnerved by the mirror image sitting across from her.

 

“I am here totally by accident.” The other Bulma sat back in her chair, swirling her wine meditatively, the picture of nonchalant arrogance. Her next question caught her off guard.

 

“Is your son named Trunks?” silence stretched as taut as wire between them as Bulma tried to digest the question. When she paused before, she must have been about to say ‘my son.’ Was it possible, the scientific part of her mind wondered, for a child to be born with the same personality and characteristics if he had different fathers? For the other Bulma’s Trunks was undoubtedly her beloved Brandon’s son.

 

“Yes, for Poppa,” she said at last. There was no need for elaboration, it seemed, for the other Bulma smirked in satisfaction and nodded.

 

“For Poppa,” she repeated, her voice soft. Then she shook herself and the cynical mastertech returned.

 

“Enough with Twenty Questions,” the other Bulma said, “I will deign to answer why you are here. Though your capture was a bit sloppy, and I do apologize for any rough handling, I did in fact, need you for a project of mine.”

 

“I won’t help you destroy the Saiyans. You might as well put me in a cell with S—my bodyguard if that’s what you want.” Bulma said with a defiant jerk of chin.  Feigning sincerity, scarred Bulma clasped her hands under her chin and said in a voice dripping with saccharine feeling, “I wouldn’t _dream_ of asking you to do such a thing!”  She flashed a devilish smile before her face darkened into a mask of deadly earnestness.

 

“What I do dream of, however, is freedom. From Frieza’s scheming to make himself the god of the Universe, from anything and anyone that gets in my way, including your beloved Saiyans.” she paused, seemingly to measure the response. Bulma only glared at her, unsure of her true motives.

 

“But I am not without . . . feeling,” she admitted this reluctantly, grimacing, “my tenure with Frieza is near its end, his paranoia and God complex have become tedious. I want a machine, like the one you used to get here. I have no desire to fix time. What is past is past. It won’t work anyway, at least, not you hoped. A thousand different races have tried. But instead of replacing the current timeline with a different one, it splinters, creating a new timeline, in which either these androids never were, or your loved ones are able to defeat them. But when you return to your own time, it would be unchanged.”

 

Bulma swallowed hard. That was the conclusion she had come to in her weeks here. The other Bulma continued, “I only want . . . I want a place where I can live unmolested. Solitude, I have learned, is the only peace.” Desolation underpinned her words and Bulma felt pity bubble from her heart. There was no lie in her eyes and Bulma knew in her gut that the other spoke the truth.

 

“All right,” Bulma said carefully, “I’ll help you. Only if you swear to me on Trunks’ life that you won’t harm me or mine.”  Anger boiled through the veneer of calm and she shot to her feet, the crystal glass shattering and the wine spilling like blood onto the carpet.

 

“How dare you! How dare you ask me to swear upon him!” her face rippled again and for an instant, Bulma saw the depths of her anguish and madness. With a soft cry, she collapsed back on the chair, burying her face in her hands.

 

“My little boy . . . my poor, sweet son, you were so brave . . .” she whispered. Then she looked up, her scarred face a picture of stony seriousness, and extended her hand.

 

“I swear on the head of my dead son that I will not harm you or yours.” Bulma took the proffered hand.

 

“Good. Thank you.” as they shook, the other Bulma held her hand firm, fever-bright, tearstained eyes peering at her like orbs of blue flame.

 

“But I have no control over what the Ice Clan will do to your little friend. They are under Frieza’s control and even their fear of me would not make them undermine him. They want to learn the secret of transformation, as well as any useful information in her head. They’re due to begin within the hour. I will let you see her once they’re finished.”

**

Fear was much worse than pain, Sansai decided. The agony of dread gnawing at her stomach was worse than the affliction of the dampers, worse than her broken honor when she allowed her lady to be captured, worse than the loss of her two most beloved family members. To distract herself, she reached inside her battlesuit for the picture, slightly crumpled, of King Vegeta’s son. As she studied it, she found she longed to tell him one of Kakkarot’s ridiculous jokes to broaden his smile, to touch the fall of his silky hair . . . _Moonstruck fool,_ she muttered to herself, _you’ve never even_ met _him and you’re not likely to ever meet him. Vegar above, he’s a prince!_

The silly internal debate calmed her ragged nerves but did little to take the edge off the bone-rattling cold. Her legs were useless wooden objects and her poor tail; she could no longer feel it. She stowed the picture in her battlesuit. Teeth clacking together, she summoned the will to unbend her pride.

 

“D—do your orders include . . . letting my limbs f--fall off from frostbite?” she asked of Zul. The Ice Clan only stared at her, a mocking smile at his black lips. Tail swinging, he steepled his fingers.

 

“No. My orders are to keep you from escaping and feed you enough to satisfy that bottomless Saiyan hunger. A punishment in of itself, I’d say, the way you monkeys ingest gross amounts of food. There is no mention of the soundness of your limbs.” His lip curled in a disgusted sneer.

 

“Besides, don’t you monkeys have ki enough to warm your mammalian bodies?”

 

Grinding her teeth in frustration, Sansai lifted her wrists and shook them.

 

“Your d--damned dampers barely leave enough ki to . . . to keep my heart beating let alone . . . let alone w—warm my extremities. So . . . so either l—l—lower the setting on these--” she motioned to the dampers, “so I can warm myself . . . or g—get me a thermal s—suit.” Zul’s red eyes scrutinized her for a long moment.

 

“Very well. If it will shut you up . . . weakling Saiyan . . .” he grumbled and disappeared around the corner. Frankly, Sansai was surprised. Since when did Ice Clan give a damn? One complaint and he was scurrying off to get her a thermal suit! Leery of any presumed kindness from the monsters of her childhood nightmares, she struggled to discern Zul’s motives even as he returned and threw the suit to her with an air of elegant distaste.

 

Sansai staggered to her feet, weary limbs screaming in protest. Needles of pain stabbed her legs and feet as blood flowed sluggishly. Casting a suspicious glare over her shoulder at Zul, she shed her chestplate. More amused than threatened, Zul said, “You needn’t fear for your virtue, Sansai daughter of Aspar and Negi. The idea of coupling with a Saiyan cub is . . . repugnant.” 

 

Slightly mollified by his words, Sansai stepped into the skin-tight suit and sighed as it trapped her meager body heat against her skin. She immediately felt warmer and stronger.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered. Zul seemed as suspicious about her courtesy as she was about his favor. The two of them—diametrical opposites, her fire and wind, he ice and stone—stood staring at each other mutely for several seconds.

 

The unexpectedly warm exchange was ended by the appearance of three more Ice Clan, each carrying a variety of instruments. Sansai swayed slightly at the sight of them, but was otherwise indifferent. Zul bowed his head in deference to the smaller ones and greeted them by name. The smallest, its red eyes watching Sansai as if she was some exotic pet, lisped, “How has your exile been thus far, Zul? Dreadfully dull, I imagine. These illiterate monkeys can’t be much company. Never fear. We’ll make her sing yet.” Sansai snarled. She thought she caught a glimmer of . . . what? Approval? Respect? in Zul’s eyes.

 

“She’s a feisty one, Hyul. Good luck breaking her.”

 

The smallest one, Hyul, grinned in sadistic anticipation.

 

“Oh, don’t worry. They all break sooner or later.” 

 

With no further preamble, the door of the cell swung open soundlessly and the three entered, forming a loose ring around Sansai. Caught in an ugly whirlwind of leering, laughing faces, she lashed out, weakly hitting at them. They only laughed and knocked her on her back and held her immobile with only their tails and three-toed feet. A surge of sickening panic filled her and she struggled for focus. Blood pounded through her, her breaths quick gulps in tightening terror. There was a blur of fluttering movement and electrodes were attached to her face, neck, the pulse on the inside of her elbow, along her tail.

 

“Now, let’s give it a little test,” said Hyul.

 

A soft hum of electricity.

 

A catching gasp of protest tore from her throat.  

 

Pain seized her with gnarled, fiery fingers, seeping like poison through her body, centering in her chest.

 

Her heart—her heart was on fire!

 

Each cursed beat sent slices of agony racing through her weakened limbs.

 

Her lips froze before forming the damning words. More than her oath, more than honor, love stayed her. Her love of King Vegeta, of Bulma, of all her squad and people kept her from betraying them. Like a spectator, she watched a slender Saiyan form writhe in agony, cords of her throat strained in the incredible tension of containing screams, blood seeping from every orifice in her head. King Vegeta’s voice cut through the crimson veil of pain wrapped around her body.

_If another mind is bearing down on you, focus on one image or emotion; latch onto it with all your strength and your enemy will see only what you see. If your concentration falters, however, they may gain entry into your mind. Find a thought and cling to it. If you do, you will endure._

_You_ will _endure._

 

Through the blistering agony, she felt the evil tentacles of thought worming towards her, barbed with thorns to tear the delicate balance of her mind to shreds. With fevered desperation, she sifted through her mind for an image strong enough.

Paragus and Broly were too painful, as was Kakkarot and any others of the squad.

King Vegeta . . . no, they might see the oath that bound them together and use her against him.

Bulma . . . no! They might discern her relationship to King Vegeta!

In her mind, the images of these two beloved faces merged into the face of Prince Trunks. Like an oasis in the desert, she fled to him, filling her mind and heart with his image, pushing all her confusing emotions into a ragged ki shield around herself.

Even as their cruel feet broke the bones of her tail, sending blunt spearheads of pain through her brain, even as they pushed at her mind, seeking the most intimate secrets therein while her body lay wracked in an unending sea of pain, her focus did not falter.

She endured.          

**

His mother’s absence left a gaping hole in the running of Capsule Corp. Trunks had grossly underestimated how integral his mother was to the smooth proceedings of the bunker city below the complex. How often had he returned from training to find her tinkering or cooking or any other half a dozen domestic tasks as if the city below ran itself? Kenji and the other foremen were skeptical and frightened when Trunks explained that his mother had left on a very important mission and had left Trunks in charge. How, they no doubt wondered, would a boy of fifteen care for several thousand people?

 

Trunks wondered that himself. He was now responsible for them all, their safety and well-being. A daunting task for a boy who by rights should be in high school. Regardless of his misgivings, Trunks took on the mantle of authority, careful not to diminish Kenji’s who was respected among the refugees and far more knowledgeable in the ways of providing for the people than Trunks.

 

When a fresh group of refugees, presumably from the island of South City where the androids had made their destructive debut, Trunks sat at his mother’s table and reviewed the prospects. They were a tight-knit group of thirty or so, all congregating around a tall, brash man bristling with black hair. Judging from the ragged skins they wore and the lean, hungry look haunting their gaunt faces, it had no been easy surviving there. He had heard his mother make similar speeches to new arrivals and sought to emulate her without parroting her words and style. They would respect him for himself, not only because he was his mother’s son.

 

“Welcome to Capsule Corp,” Trunks said, “there is space enough for you and your people, as well as food, water and other amenities. But there are rules here and if broken, I am within my right to expel you. As long as you and your people don’t cause trouble, you are welcome to stay here.”

 

“You would keep us in this hole like animals while you live it up in that mansion above ground? What makes you so much better than us, Mr. Briefs?” the leader sneered, bearded face twisted into a snarl. Anger flashed through him, but he quelled it. Trunks caught the man’s blue stare and the two of them battled unblinkingly for several seconds. Something altered in the older man’s face and he looked away first. Trunks kept his voice level, so icily polite it was almost rudeness.

 

“Any are free to stay in the complex. Android activity is often erratic, and there is a sense of safety to be found underground.” Trunks then addressed the whole group.

 

“Now, there are no free-loaders here. If you do not ply a trade, speak to Kenji will assign you work and living quarters. Go to Jen for a hot shower, a hot meal and fresh clothes. But first,” he sat and took up a pen, opening the ledger, filled with columns of his mother’s neat handwriting, recording the arrivals, marriages, births and deaths of all who lived here.

 

“I would like your names for our records.”

 

One by one, the South City group stepped forward and said their names, and the reek of dried and sweat, fear, and barely tanned hide assaulted Trunks’ sensitive nose. All in all, fifteen men, ten women and three children, none older than six. Sulking last in line was the leader. His hand rested protectively on the shoulder of a slender young woman.

 

“Hercule Satan,” he said gruffly, “and my daughter Videl.” Not waiting for Trunks’ nod or word of greeting, he stormed off to where the rest of his people gathered around Kenji. Trunks felt the girl’s gaze on him and he looked up, closing the ledger with exaggerated care.

 

She stood shifting from foot to foot, picking at the fingerless gloves she wore. Compared to the clothes of the others, she was dressed in high fashion in a pair of jeans several sizes to big for her and a baggy t-shirt that fell to her knees, patched so many times that there were only scraps of the original fabric. Her black hair hung in greasy snarls, hiding most of her face. All he could see plainly were a pair of blue eyes, pale and clear. They met his for only an instant, before dropping to the floor. Her whole attitude reminded Trunks of a cornered wild thing, the shifty unpredictability that was at once interesting and confusing. 

 

“Don’t mind him,” she said at last, “we were rich before . . . and Pop has never reconciled to the fact that he can’t spoil me like he used to.”

 

Trunks stared at her dumbly, no longer a Saiyan warrior or even the head of Capsule Corp. Now he was only a callow boy who had never spoken to a girl his age. The girl—Videl—he reminded himself, could be a handful of years older than him, near Gohan’s age. She surprised him by stepping forward and grabbing his hand. Trunks flinched, but managed to keep himself from tearing his hand away and frightening her with his unnatural speed.

 

“Thank you for taking us in. It was . . . very hard, living on an island with nothing more than rats and dogs to eat. My mother . . . she didn’t survive our journey here, along with ten others. Those little ones are orphans. There was no contact with the outside world until we heard Bulma’s radio broadcast. It’s . . . nice to finally feel safe. Pop says we’ll be able to end it soon. There are people enough here to try and fight.” Trunks felt the stirrings of sympathy at her plight. It seemed there was no child alive with both parents. All sympathy vanished into confused anger at her last statement.

 

“Fight? What are you talking about?” he demanded. A strange light entered her eyes, bright and full of hope.

 

“We’ll defeat them at last. With all of us fight together we’ll--”

 

“Be slaughtered!” Trunks finished, fury filling him at their ignorance. If _Gohan_ , the greatest of all warriors had died fighting them, what chance did these weakling humans have? It was suicide! At her startled look, Trunks grasped her shoulders and struggled to find calm.

 

“Videl, after the androids attacked South City, the entire world massed armies against them. Tanks, missiles, even a nuclear bomb. It all failed. _Failed!_ Millions of people dead within days. They have been roaming and murdering for the past fifteen years. If your father tries to fight them, he and anyone who follows him will die. Do you understand?”

 

Videl shook her head, stepping away from him.

 

“But Pop says . . .”

 

Trunks clenched his jaw to stem the tide of ugly words, words that would crush the fragile hope in her eyes. Instead, he shoved his emotions behind the wall of his control and stormed off. When Kenji fell into step beside him, Trunks tersely said, “Gather all the people to the auditorium tomorrow night. I need . . . I need to show them what their up against. I go to train. Call if you need me.”

 

 

His first task was to repair his sword. More than an implement in battle, it had become a source of confidence to him. In one of his mother’s many capsules, he found a spare sword. But instead of using this exact replica, he thought, why not improve on the design? 17 had broken it with ease. It needed to be stronger. For the remainder of the day, Trunks was buried in scientific text, decoding the jargon like a complex language that he hadn’t used in years. He felt slightly foolish as he did so. What could he find that his mother had overlooked?

 

On he soldiered until Saiyan hunger tore him away. With a reluctant sigh, he left the gleaming blade unsheathed on the table, ready for tomorrow’s toil. He ate his meal leaning against the sink, the cold of refrigerator curled around his ankles. With a sly smile, Trunks rummaged through the fridge to the bottle of soda stowed in the back. In recent years, soda had become a rarity, prized as one would an aged whiskey. His mother was a tyrant about saving it, allowing him only a cupful at his birthday or on another special occasion. With devilish relish, he unscrewed the top, set his teeth along the rim, and guzzled. The quick cold of the carbonation and acid burned his throat and made his eyes water. Soft and sweet and bubbly, it slid down his throat like champagne. When the last wonderful drop passed his lips, he looked at the empty plastic bottle with regret.

 

Trunks belched loudly and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin. Ambling towards the G.R., he slung a towel around his neck. The quiet and emptiness of the house was unnerving. Maybe he should encourage some of the tenants to use the rooms. Trunks swallowed the knot of emotion rising in his throat at the thought of his mother. In these moments of silence, her absence was a physical pain. The G.R. was his sanctuary. In the struggle of training, he forgot all else, all save the desire integral to his nature: the desire to fight and overcome any obstacle in his way, to be better. Trunks tossed aside the towel and shed his shirt, twisting his torso in a preparatory stretch. 

 

“Computer, activate program. Two hundred and fifty times gravity.”

 

Best start light, a bit of a warm-up.

 

As the machine whirred to life, Trunks manually activated the mp3 player integrated into the master computer in the center of the G.R., setting it to his favorite playlist. As the gravity settled over him like a wet blanket, Trunks yawned. The strain was mild and pleasant, hardly fazing him. Humming along with the song, Trunks stretched and threw a few experimental combinations. Kami, it felt good to train. He lost himself in the effort and sweat of it. He missed Gohan’s laughing and good natured teasing. Without another warrior to sharpen him, would his power stagnate? Suddenly inspired, he cried, “Increase to four hundred times gravity!”

 

The only way to find out was to push himself. The overhead lights took on the reddish cast of warning, a subtle hint of his mother’s disapproval of such extremes. The strain became pain, tearing pain that made his bones leaden and his muscles unresponsive metal. The effort required to stay upright was crushing—almost overwhelming. He cried out with the pain, and he dug for the power inside him. It rose to his call eagerly, lessening the pain. A grim smile touched his lips. Tomorrow, he would show them. He was the son of a powerful alien prince and the blood of a race of proud warriors ran through his veins.

He would show them that.

If not earn their respect, they would fear him and stay put.

 

 

The next morning, he kept his ears open to any reports of android activity on the radio.

There was none.

Trunks puzzled over this as he ate his ninth bowl of cereal. Where had they gone? In fifteen years, a ragged cycle had formed. For at least two consecutive months, android activity would cease, mostly in the spring in recent years. His mother hypothesized that the expenditure of ki wore down their internal battery, and their disappearance was to recharge. But since there was no record of where Gero hid and Trunks couldn’t sense their ki, he had no hope of finding them. It was a bitter thought, laced with impotency and regret.

If only he could find them and kill them while they were vulnerable!

For an instant, he envisioned a giant metal detector that he could sweep beneath him as he flew . . . he rose from the table with a regretful wag of his head. There was no way he could ever implement it.

 

No, he would have to wait and train and watch for their next appearance. When those two murdering tin cans emerged, oh when! He’d be ready! He would cut them to pieces like a dark angel of judgment in revenge for all 17 and 18 had killed without a thought . . . The shatter of porcelain drew him from his grisly imaginings. He looked down in the sink to find his bowl in shattered pieces in his hands amid the steam and soap.

 

Unconsciously, he waited for his mother’s chiding sarcasm about Saiyans and broken china. When no comment came, Trunks was smote once more by loneliness. There was no one left in all the world who understood him and his power, no one who cared. He carefully gathered the pieces and threw them away, drowning out thoughts of isolation with training and study. Before he knew it, Kenji buzzed him from below to report that all were gathered and awaited him. Trunks loosed his hair from the topknot, letting it hang free in his face. He slid into jeans, sneakers and a white Capsule Corp t-shirt. He would set aside the pretensions of leader or warrior or even Saiyan. They would see him only as a young man, muscular, but only a kid after all.

 

The roar of the crowd greeted him as he exited the lift. It was rare for all the tenants of the bunkers to be gathered in one place and Trunks was amazed by the scale and foresight of his grandfather. His design had housed hundreds of people for fifteen years with barely a hiccup.  _I never thanked you. You’re awesome, Gramps,_ Trunks thought. Kenji stood, nervously fingering the pistol he always wore at his belt. Trunks appraised his mother’s friend and employee as if for the first time. Short and wiry with a bushy mane of brown hair bristling around his prominent ears, and wide-set, watchful green eyes, he hardly looked the tough foreman and keeper of the peace. Kenji noticed Trunks and stood straighter.

 

“Everyone’s here, sir. Now, what is this about?” capable, respectful, to the point—that was Kenji in a nutshell.

 

“Some of the new arrivals, Mr. Satan in particular, want to try and fight the androids. I cannot allow this—they would get themselves killed. So I need to remind them just how strong they are.” To his credit, Kenji took this in stride.

 

“How do you plan to do that, Mr. Briefs?” he asked. Trunks smiled, clapping a friendly hand on his shoulder, initiating a rare moment of physical contact.

 

“I plan to show them how strong _I_ am in comparison. Is your clip full on your pistol, Mr. Nagano?” Trunks asked curtly. Slightly baffled by the question, Kenji fumbled with the weapon and said, “Uh, yes. Yes it is.”

 

“You know how to fire a gun?” Trunks demanded. The man grew very serious.  

 

“Yes, sir. My dad taught me when I was six and I’ve always carried one.”

 

“Good,” Trunks said, folding his arms over his chest, “I want you to empty the clip at me. I’ll give the signal,” he crooked two fingers, “and you fire. Don’t wait for me to turn around.” His green eyes round and frightened, Kenji was shaking his head before Trunks finished the sentence.

 

“I won’t do it, sir. I know that you’re . . . that you can . . . I know something’s different about you, but I won’t shoot you!”

 

Trunks stared at him piercingly and Kenji quickly shut up. When he spoke, Trunks was a perfect imitation of his father, deadly soft and serious.

 

“You will, Kenji. I wouldn’t ask you unless I knew I could take it. You will fire all six rounds at me: my head, my torso, my arms, whatever you can. Trust me.” Kenji’s face paled to bone white and he looked ready to throw up, but he followed as Trunks stepped into the center of the auditorium. The talk quickly quieted and when the last echoes died away, Trunks greeted them.  He was careful to keep his voice loud, rising and falling with the tenor of emotion in his brief speech.

 

“Good evening, everyone! I’m sure most of you know me, but for those of you who don’t, my name is Trunks Briefs, son of Bulma Briefs, who opened this compound some years ago, when the androids began their reign of terror. The androids . . . they killed my father and my best friend. So I can say with absolute certainty I know how you feel. I know the rage and sorrow you feel, I know you want to fight back. But all of you have seen the results of those who tried—war, famine, sickness, and loss, futile death all around us. 17 and 18, they’re monsters, monsters of nightmares that have more strength than you can imagine. So I implore, I _beg_ of you—do not throw your lives away fighting them--” Hercule rose from a few rows back, clean-shaven and dressed in similar raiment as Trunks.

 

“What would you have us do, _Mr. Briefs_? Hide in this hole of yours until they kill us all? We can’t hide forever!” some agreed, shouting and clapping. Trunks was dismayed by how widespread this feeling was. He raised his hands for silence and they quieted reluctantly.

 

“I don’t suppose my word that they are dangerous would be enough?” Trunks asked sarcastically, allowing a dry smile. Titters and guffaws of reluctant laughter rippled through the audience.

 

“Very well then. I’ll show you why, Mr. Satan.” 

 

He gave Kenji the signal.

 

There was a second’s hesitation, then six pistol shots rang through the auditorium, along with a chorus of screams and shouts of horror. The move was quick and effortless; Trunks phased out of their sight and caught each of the flying pieces of lead before they hit him, smiling as the heat and shock passed through his body like a puff of air. Kenji relaxed at the sight of him still standing through the thin veil of gunsmoke. Trunks faced the rapt audience. He found Hercule’s shocked face and uncurled one finger at a time. The bullets fell with a musical tinkle on the tile floor. He spread his arms to show he was unharmed.

 

“What was your plan, Mr. Satan? Shoot them? Sneak up on them?” Trunks tore off his shirt, revealing the scars of his most recent bout with the androids.

 

“I am strong. I am fast, but this is what they did to me when I fought them. What then, do you think they would do to you?” he addressed them all now, feeling strangely powerful with their attention glued to him.

 

“I have bled for this cause. I will do everything in my power to kill those two metal murderers. Give me time. I will give you freedom or die trying.”

 

With that, he left the auditorium to Kenji’s gentle handling, praying to all the gods he could deliver on his promise. The sound of soft footfalls chased him to the lift. He turned to find a young woman a few inches shorter than he, dressed in shorts and a pink shirt. Her hair was shorn close to her head, a cowlick making her bangs stand on end.

 

“Can I help you?” Trunks said stonily, paradoxically yearning for solitude even as his heart cried out for the warmth of company.

 

“You left your shirt.”

 

It wasn’t until she spoke that Trunks realized that it was Hercule’s daughter Videl standing before him. He blinked stupidly at her for a moment, taking back his shirt with numb fingers. She was beautiful! Clean and well-fed, she was pale and slender, with the hint of strength hidden under her soft shyness. Her blue eyes fell to the scars and her brow puckered in sympathy.

 

“I’m sorry. About your father and your best friend. What was his name?”

 

“G—Gohan. He was . . . he was like me,” Trunks finished lamely. How he wished he had his father’s pride! So he may proclaim his heritage without awkwardness, without the inherent isolation of an _alien_. Videl only nodded. Trunks turned to leave when Videl stopped him.

 

“Kenji assigned me scrap detail tomorrow night. Afterward . . . I’d like to see your house, if that’s all right.”  The tentative smile she wore melted the denial on Trunks’ tongue. There was no harm in taking a night off. Gohan had often distracted him from training with lures like swimming or wrestling. But he doubted Videl would want to wrestle a grizzly bear . . .

 

“All right. I’ll meet you here at eight.” 

 

And Trunks walked lighter than he had in the long weeks since Gohan’s death.


	17. The Breaking Point

In the interminable twilight of the Ice Clan dungeons, Sansai lay in her cell, surrounded by the leering shapes of the former occupants of this cell. Amid the bodies of several races, she spotted a fellow Saiyan, back arched and tail curved in a posture of excruciating strain. Empty eye sockets looked down at Sansai from the ceiling and the distended canines gave him a smiling appearance. Despite its macabre nature, it comforted her. Had it been hours, days, weeks since Hyul had tortured her? She gained a mite of grim satisfaction when her barriers held even after grueling hours of assault.

 

Zul, her gaoler, was as much a prisoner as she, Sansai realized, for he never left, and hardly moved from where he sat outside the cell. Her gaze flickered to her jailer and found the blood red eyes staring. Defiantly, Sansai held his gaze. She was painfully aware of the dried blood caking her face, the blackened eye, the dented and crumbling chestplate she wore. What a sight she made. At least she was no longer cold. The pain that had inhabited her body like a demon was sleeping for now, whispering along the edges of her thoughts. As long as she didn’t move and jar her broken tail, the pain of her wounds lay silent. Out of oblique curiosity, Sansai wondered about Zul’s role. Hadn’t he mentioned progeny of his, slain by Frieza?

 

“I was--” her voice was hoarse, sounding rusted and ill-used. She cleared her throat and tried again, “I was under the impression that Ice Clan developed no bond with their spawn.” The red eyes narrowed.

 

“This is true. The thorny thing you mammals call love does not exist between sire and offspring among my kind. The only love we hold is for our Winter-king, Lord Frieza.”

 

“You don’t love him,” Sansai pointed out, “and you loved your brat. Why else would you grieve?”

 

Zul’s upper lip curled into a snarl, red eyes blazing like livid coals.

 

“Frieza’s actions were an insult to my honor. What would you know of it, monkey? I’ve been a warrior since before your great-grandfather cut his first tooth. I spent five hundred years raising him to adulthood. Five hundred years . . . wasted.”

 

“Frieza is a perverted sadist. How can you continue to serve him? He has no honor, no thought beyond his own petty desires. He--” her words were cut off as Zul dashed his wine in her face. It stung in her split lip. With exaggerated care, she dabbed her tender face with the arm of the thermal suit.

 

“Shut up! Stop your prattling, Saiyan! You little fool, regurgitating lies fed to you from the cradle--”

 

Sansai shot to her feet, landing in a battle crouch, ignoring the crippling pain. Instead of hissing and spitting like she wanted to, she forced herself to find calm.

 

“Hypocrite! You call _me_ ill-mannered, uneducated, prejudiced, when you yourself have gross misconceptions of the Saiyans, the _monkeys_. In your centuries, have you not seen the atrocities of your kings? I know the histories. King Cold like his father before him killed millions of beings, not only Saiyans, but innocent civilian worlds during a time of truce, for nothing more than entertainment. His sons are worse.”

 

Slightly more calm, Zul snapped, “And you’re paragons of virtue? You speak prettily for your race, but your people and mine are kissing cousins.” Sansai raised and lowered one shoulder in a shrug, wincing as she did so.

 

“My people are not innocent. We have had, and still have designs for domination, but the difference between yours and mine, Zul of the Ice Clan, is that my people are _changing_. A century ago, we were in a cultural backspin. Fifty years ago we were your slaves. Ten years ago, we presided over the largest free trade in history. Planets flock to our banners.”

 

Zul could not deny the truth of her words and Sansai slowly slid back to the floor, exhausted beyond measure by simple speech.

 

“In all my years of dealing with the Saiyans, I have come to this conclusion: our races must find a way to coexist or we will destroy each other,” Zul said.

 

Sansai frowned at him, the expression hurting her damaged face. These words . . . from an Ice Clan? A commander, no less?  Zul smirked, catching a wayward bead of Arlian wine pearled on the rim of his cup with the tip of his red tongue. Eyeing the empty glass with something akin to uncomfortable regret, he jested, “Who then would be left to rule the galaxy?” Sansai offered a dry smirk. Did he regret the loss of his wine or the fact that he splashed it in her face? She did not say that as they spoke, King Vegeta was blazing through the galaxy in search of his mate, and when he arrived, no Ice Clan would survive his wrath.

 

“Tell me of Cooler. Why doesn’t King Cold’s eldest son lead the Ice Clan?” she asked conversationally.

 

The cold, silent tedium that filled the hours since Hyul’s little visit obviously grated on Zul as well, for he answered without rebuff. He set the empty glass on a shelf built into the wall, where her meals were delivered from the tower above at regular intervals. Sansai was struck by how his punishment must grate upon this vainglorious commander—playing nanny to a second class Saiyan. Muscular alabaster arms folded, he leaned against the bars of her cell, red eyes cool and distant.

 

“Cooler is an enigma even to his own people. Ice Clan do not need to copulate to bear progeny. We are sufficient within ourselves. Thus, it is strange that King Cold so favors Frieza. Cooler is wiser and more powerful. Had Cooler taken the throne of bone and ice, he would not have toyed with your monkey prince Vegeta fifteen years ago. He would have killed him as Frieza should have and the war would be over. But instead . . . instead Cooler rules the far north, scorning Frieza’s war, scorning all on his mad quest for the lost world of Namek.”

**

Words, strident, angry, impassioned, echoed through the throne room, the reverberations ricocheting chaotically as if a multitude waged war. The sound made his head, which still throbbed from the Moontime madness, ache with a near blinding intensity. It was amazing to him that the source of all this noise was his newly crowned king and his little brother. Idly, he reached through the low-grade telepathic link to his mate that still lingered from the moon. It would fizzle away within a few weeks and he would regret its loss. He found her sparring with several other Elite females and watched with pride as she batted them away with ease. A frown settled over his chiseled features. He would be as mad as his king if his mate was taken from him. He liked the blue Earth woman, admired her fire and strength. _Tujet_ or no, she was a worthy queen by the valor of her blood.

 

Vegar above, the king’s power was monstrous! Quells of almost religious awe raced through him at the golden press of the sweltering ki looming over his head. Kakkarot, after that mysterious change some fifteen years ago, had taught him to sense ki with his mind, though the scouter came easier for him. In the king’s ascended state, Raditz could do nothing but fall on his face in wonder. Ascended _beyond_ Super Saiyan! How deep was the well of power that dwelt within him? How was it that Kakkarot could stand toe to toe with their Legendary king? _Maybe the moon has scrambled the last of the brat’s wits,_ he thought dryly.

 

Raditz glanced sidelong at his father. The sagging posture and the misery on his face was nearly too much to bear. He blamed himself for the loss of the Earth woman and Sansai. Raditz felt a pang of loss for his squad-sister. To be imprisoned by the Ice Clan, at their mercy, shackled by some evil ki damper . . . his jaw clenched convulsively at the thought of such a noble warrior suffering that doom. But despite King Vegeta’s accusations, it wasn’t his father’s fault that the moon had interfered with his Gift, nor was it his fault that he had not Seen Paragus’ betrayal in time. How could he focus upon so many variables? The dozens of beings that made up the complex patterns of their fate . . . not even a Seer could account for everything.

 

Raditz nudged his father’s arm with his elbow, a gesture of silent camaraderie and comfort. The corner of Bardock’s mouth twitched and his brows relaxed briefly. Though Kakkarot was the mirror image of their father, Raditz had inherited the lion’s share of Bardock’s mannerisms and personality. His calm, reserved nature had served him well as captain of King Vegeta’s squad.

 

Kakkarot and King Vegeta were arguing, and had been arguing ever since Vegeta informed them of the two women’s plight, about how to proceed. King Vegeta, as ever the tactician, insisted that conscriptions be sent out, to gather the Saiyan army for an offensive against the heart of the Ice Clan Empire. Kakkarot, on the other hand, desperate in his fear for Sansai and the Earth woman whom he had befriended, wanted to start out in pods in search of the Ice Clan world without delay.

 

Raditz did not bother to mention that every minute wasted arguing likened the chance of some evil befalling one or both of them. If he did, King Vegeta in his present mood would probably blast him to Hell for mentioning even the _possibility_ of harm coming to his woman. Had Seripa been the one in Frieza’s clutches, Raditz would be of the same opinion.

 

“I _know_ the dangers, third class! Even with my power, I cannot fight Frieza, plus several thousand Ice Clan slavishly obedient to him,” King Vegeta growled, and Raditz was once more smote by the backdraft of his power. Even in his original state, King Vegeta’s power seemed infinite. Kakkarot was unfazed, eyes blazing with rare ire.

 

“How can you say that so coldly? Every second wasted is one where they may draw their last breath! We _have_ to search now!”

 

The change in the king was immediate and frightening. All the belligerent yelling and arrogance fell away. His face became like granite, cold and immobile; all save for his eyes which seared with a blast of fierce anger, they blazed like twin black suns. His voice was deadly soft.

 

“Watch your step, Kakkarot. You forget it is my _bonded mate_ who is Frieza’s prisoner. It is only because she is currently whole and unharmed that I have sanity enough to plan her rescue.” Golden tendrils of energy lifted from him like steam and Raditz was sure that the king was not consciously summoning his power. Anger and fear had whetted his ki to a blade’s edge, ready to sing at the slightest provocation. With a soft chirp, Raditz’s scouter overloaded and died.

 

Kakkarot realized how far he had pushed the king and quietly powered up to defend himself. It was no use. As swift as a lightning bolt thrown from heaven, King Vegeta grabbed him by the chestplate, and reared back to punch. Suddenly his eyes glazed over in the look of telepathic contact. His face spasmed, and beads of sweat popped on his brow. Raditz and Kakkarot leapt forward, watching their king anxiously, wondering if his woman was undergoing some heinous torture. The king thrust out a hand to ward off help and staggered to his throne. Sitting, he took a breath and calmed. 

 

“My woman is well. She is . . . distraught, enraged beyond measure. She has seen what they have done to Sansai.” Kakkarot let out a keening moan and buried his face in his hands. King Vegeta’s face mirrored the agony Kakkarot professed, but pride shone strong in his eyes.

 

“She has endured their tortures. They have broken her tail, chained her ki, beaten her within an inch of her life, yet still she stands. There are few like her.” King Vegeta shook off contemplation.

 

“All of you, get out of my sight. Raditz, send hyper messages to all garrisons telling them to send the best of their warriors. Bardock, since your visions seem to be a faulty means of direction, scour every star chart you can find, try to locate where Freiza’s chunk of ice should be. Kakkarot . . .  fetch us food.” An offer of forgiveness if there ever was one.

 

Without a peep of protest, the Bardock and his sons left to do their king’s bidding. Raditz looked back to see King Vegeta, his face a picture of anguish. Raditz was struck by the cold thought: What use was the power of a Super Saiyan when Freiza held the one you loved most hostage?

King Vegeta would submit if Frieza ever discovered what the Earth woman was to him and all would be lost.

Love would bend even King Vegeta’s pride.

**

Her link with Vegeta was her only comfort in the days of her captivity. Her other self said it had only been a week, but to Bulma it felt as if she had aged decades. Without fail, Hyul would torture Sansai and without fail, Bulma would see the results of it on the crystal monitor in the other Bulma’s staterooms. Not even Frieza’s mastertech held sway over the court torturer. Isolation, she said in that dry, ironical voice, was part of the torment. Watching what Hyul did to Sansai was as bad, if not worse than seeing the slow collapse of spirit the androids caused in Trunks. To her relief, Vegeta did not go ten minutes without contacting her through their bond, sometimes wordless flashes of comfort and strength and other times reassuring words that he would soon be with her.

 

There were several close calls, however. The other Bulma had so far held herself far from the slaves and Ice Clan. Only Frieza knew what she looked like, yet he knew nothing of Bulma herself save that she was the Saiyans’ mastertech and she was needed to finish a project. It made for tricky business as they slipped through the halls between the lab and their respective rooms in the tower city. In his paranoia, Frieza—not unjustly—feared that his pet mastertech would try to escape. To curb this desire, her lab was in the highest room of the city. The wind howled constantly, like a living thing, through the thick walls of ice, as if it too longed for freedom.  

 

When Bulma almost ran headlong into Frieza and Zarbon, the other Bulma quickly outfitted her with the same concealment technology she used to hide the planet. Not only did it conceal her from view, but it also masked her ki. It was unnerving to look down and see nothing as she walked, to not even hear the jar of her own step on the floor. The mechanism itself was simple and Bulma figured out how to counteract it within an hour. It was a delicate and deadly game she played, helping her other self build means for escape while simultaneously thinking of how to sabotage the tech she had built to hide this place.

 

Humming tension filled her every waking second: fear of discovery, fear of torture, fear for Sansai, fear, fear, _fear_! The androids had always been a distant sort of tyrant, keeping her living in a sort of gray unease, worrying if their next attack would kill more of what she loved. This was very different. Now, the tyrant that had haunted so many nightmares was just down the hall. Now, everything hinged on the strength of one mind—a mind that was under constant assault, her body’s strength crumbling beneath her . . .

 

If Sansai gave in, all would be lost. Bulma tried not to think of it, but it loomed over her head like a cloud, a poisonous mist that permeated her every thought and action. The healthy flowering glow of her skin died under the crushing anxiety. The gaunt, haunted look returned to her countenance and she felt herself slowly teetering towards some great precipice within her mind, something within her stretched tauter and tauter, to the breaking point. Vegeta eased the ache of loneliness, but she felt the underlying chords of fear in the tenor of his thoughts as days passed and he made no headway in finding the Ice Clan planet. For all his strength, he was powerless to help her or Sansai.

**

Sansai had always considered herself a warrior of exceptional caliber. If not of the highest power level, then she was of unwavering loyalty and a mental strength nearly unmatched. The endless hours of her torture and imprisonment had ground all of her notions of strength to dust, burning through each layer of herself. Astoundingly, there was very little damage to her flesh, save for her tail. Spilling blood and breaking bones was too messy for Hyul’s taste. Instead, he stimulated the centers of her brain responsible for pain.

 

He was very creative in his methods, in one instant the pain was like hot knives, then it mutated into a biting chill, then, in the next moment it was a slowly escalating itch that engulfed her whole body. The gashes on her arms and legs were self-inflicted. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Her whole body felt bruised and trembling and tender. And the demons in her head rose from the ashes of the torture, accusing. _What a pathetic excuse for a Saiyan you are! You disgrace your blood and people! Gods know what’s happened to Bulma!_

 

Her reverie was broken by the food tray skittering across the ice. The edge of the tray jarred her broken tail and a ragged gasp tore free from her throat. Her jaw and throat hurt from screaming. Abruptly, tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks before she could check them. She stared at the steaming food with a doleful longing; she lacked the strength or will to lift her arm. Sansai twitched her shoulders and sank from her half sitting position against the wall to the floor. The fragile scabs covering the wounds on her arms and legs tore open and blood dripped in weeping rivulets onto the ice.  Slowly, uncaring of Zul’s predatory watchfulness, she wormed to the tray and buried her face in the rich fare, not having the strength to hold her body up. Sansai began the laborious task of chewing and swallowing. She nearly cried out as the bolus of food rasped the delicate tissues of her throat. Even eating caused her pain.

 

Sansai summoned the strength to lift her face, smeared with food and tears and blood, and drag herself away from the tray. Her strength spent, she rested her cheek against the floor and closed her eyes. The ice numbed her skin and the lack of feeling was almost pleasant. The wounds of her capture were gone, but were replaced with many new ones. A flutter of movement, the creak of the cell’s door. Sansai’s eyes flashed open to see two white reptilian feet approach. Thinking it was Hyul, she curled into a fetal position, pressing herself into the floor as if to become one of the skeletal decorations.

 

“Calm yourself, little monkey. It is I.” Zul’s voice was laced with tones unfamiliar on Ice Clan lips. It was like when Vegeta or Zuki made a chidingly affectionate sally at her expense, when she had done something exceptionally foolish. The only explanation she could come up with was that Zul had dredged up mercy within his chilly soul and would kill her now. The touch of his hand was warmed by the thermal suit, and he rolled her over, cradling her shoulders on the muscular thickness of his tail. Had his hand touched her bare skin, it would have seared it black with frostbite. His black lip was curled into the expression of haughty disgust she was by now accustomed to. But his eyes . . . his eyes held something different. The rim of a cup bumped her lips.

 

“Drink,” he commanded, the silky, lisping notes laced with gentleness. Obediently, Sansai set her lips to the rim and drank, steeling herself for the bite of Arlian wine. Instead, something soft and sweet slid down her throat, lighting a mellow fire in her belly. After the last drop passed her lips, she whispered, “What was that?”

 

Zul shrugged, lowering her to the floor. He stalked back to his place outside the cell, closing the door with a contemptuous flick of tail. Safely away from her, he answered, “I was in the mood for a softer wine. That was Perlandran. There were nutrients enough in that to satisfy me for a week or so.” The corner of his black mouth softened and curled upward in a hesitant smile, “You should be fine for a few hours then.”

 

Sansai mustered a smile.

 

“I thank you, Zul. That was . . . very kind.”  

 

Zul shrugged again, avoiding her gaze.

 

“Your mewling was getting on my nerves. I wanted to shut you up.”  

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a regen tank around, would you? I wouldn’t say another word, on my honor, if you helped me in one,” Sansai joked, already feeling stronger from the laced wine. Zul snickered and waved a white hand, “Fresh out. Tough luck.”  

 

Sansai snorted in derisive laughter, but did not pursue conversation. It drained her meager store of strength. To her surprise, her companion broke the silence. The words hung in the frosty air, fragile objects liable to shatter, and stirred evanescent hope in Sansai’s chest.

 

“My son’s name was Kurusia . . . In my millennium of existence . . . I have found that the balance of power has shifted.” His words came hesitantly at first, then with grater confidence, “Ice Clan might is on the wane while the Saiyan star rises ever higher.  You, Sansai, daughter of Aspar and Negi, are the only one among your kind I have met that I can tolerate without wishing them a violent death.” It was the closest thing to a compliment that an Ice Clan would ever give a Saiyan.

 

“When . . . your monkey king arrives, and I’m sure he will soon, I pray the gods quicken his hands against Frieza. I would see justice done for Kurusia’s sake before your king kills me in his rage.”

 

Sansai willed life into her limbs and by that will, she dragged herself upright. She met Zul’s red eyes unblinkingly.

“And you, Zul of the Ice Clan, are the only one of your kind that has shown true honor. It doesn’t have to end that way. Perhaps I can convince King Vegeta to spare you . . .”

 

Now he did laugh, hoarse chuckles maligning her ignorance, “They will think you mad or brainwashed. A Saiyan, crying pardon for an Ice Clan?”

 

Sansai dragged herself across the cell floor to the bars, staring into Zul’s eyes. Her arms shook with the strain and bile rose up to paint her mouth with its taste.

 

“Release me, Zul. When he arrives. I must find Bul—our mastertech. She is important.”

 

“Yes. She is more important than you let on. Death presses on all sides. If I do not, I will die. If I do, I will certainly die. Very well, Saiyan. I will release you and seek my revenge. It was Frieza who ordered Kurusia’s death, but Zarbon who carried it out. I would have his stinking Rakashi-jin blood on my hands.”

 

They sank back into silence, brooding over their fates.

**

“What have you found?” Vegeta demanded of Bardock, sweeping into the star lab with a flutter of red cape, Kakkarot at his heels. _Damned Seer,_ Vegeta thought for the thousandth time. _I’m gathering warriors for the greatest assault in Saiyan history and he wants me to look at his charts!_

 

The scarred Seer sensed the gist of his thoughts and grinned.

 

“Trust me, Sire. You want to see this.”

 

He pressed a button on the main console. Instantly, a floating map of space exploded around them in a bewildering tapestry of stars and nebulas, clouds of multi-colored gases and rocky asteroid fields. It was a landscape richer than any found on a single planet. Impatiently, Vegeta recognized the flare that was Planet Vegeta, Perlandra, Xenu . . . onto the farthest reaches of his Empire. Bardock floated up towards the vaulted ceiling, and pointed to a blank spot in the northern reaches. Vegeta narrowed his eyes. He spoke the coordinates and with a heady vertigo of movement, the computer brought it into focus, all the stars and planets revolving in real time. Upon closer inspection, it was not a black hole, for there was no evidence of suction or dying stars. Quite the opposite, all the nearby stars were orbiting in perfect sync.

 

“By the computer’s reckoning, there’s nothing there. No life-forms, no planets, nothing,” Bardock said.

 

“That is where the old monster is hiding. Kakkarot, tell the men. We leave now.” As the younger man left to do his bidding, a grim pleasure filled Vegeta, one of bloodlust soon to be slaked, a hunger for revenge to be sated.

 

 _Woman, I come,_ he said through their bond.

 

Vegeta dismissed the techs with a wave of his hand. When they were alone, he turned to Bardock and battled down the rage that built within him whenever he saw the man. In many ways, Vegeta was just as angry at himself. The capture of his mate and Sansai was at much his fault as it was Bardock’s. If he hadn’t sent them to Perlandra . . .   he mastered this swell of emotion and demanded, “What do you See?”

 

Bardock’s face hardened into a stoic mask, his eyes cold and hollow as he accessed his gift. His lips moved, as if soundlessly speaking, commanding the ghosts of what could be to show him their secrets. When his eyes opened, they were the soulless emptiness of a man tortured beyond bearing.

 

“There is still so much undecided . . . it’s such a confused jumble . . . Broly will come, once we pierce their shield, for Sansai.” His face twisted in disgust.

 

“He wants her for his moonbride. He will ascend again, into something much more dangerous. You will fight him.” Vegeta frowned. While he would take great pleasure in beating the living hell out of that incestuous traitor, would he waste his power fighting Broly? What about Freiza?

 

“And . . . Bulma . . .” the words held the toll of doom and Vegeta seized Bardock by the chestplate, half mad with fear for her. What would befall her?

 

“What is it, Seer? What happens to Bulma?” Vegeta commanded, shaking him when no answer was forthcoming. Bardock raised his hands to ward off the attack.

 

“I don’t understand. I see her bleeding on a floor of ice . . . then falling . . .” sick fear unlike any he had ever known swelled up in Vegeta, but he quickly tamped it down under the steel of his will and the fire of his anger. Golden power burned like a sun under his skin, as natural as the feral quickening of the moon. 

 

“Bardock, if she dies, as do I. Look into your visions. Do we win the day?” Vegeta said, his words quick and sharp. Bardock’s shoulders sagged in defeat and Vegeta released him, snarling in disgust.

 

“That I cannot say. The war will be decided today, that is all I See. For good or ill, we will find out today.”


	18. Blood in the Snow

“Done,” the other Bulma said, heaving herself from beneath their hastily-constructed machine. While it was not as powerful as her time machine, it was functional.

Impressive for one week’s work.

 

The scar on the other Bulma’s face and neck stretched as she smiled. Bulma offered a hand to help her up. Bulma offered a smile in return, inspecting the machine critically. Small and sleek, this machine made hers look bulky and unwieldy by comparison. But then again, she hadn’t been concerned with appearances, only function. Not to mention this Bulma had access to much more advanced technologies. The thought appeased Bulma’s vanity. _Finished. And not a second too soon. Vegeta must be close by now. I wonder if she can access the core computer from here. Then I could shut off the shield and most of their tech . . ._

 

One of the computers in the echoingly large lab chirped a quick combination of notes and the other Bulma’s head cocked in a quick, birdlike motion to catch the sound. Bulma frowned. The screen panned out to show a view of the system surrounding the planet and flashed lines of runes she could not read. Bulma glanced at her companion. Her face awash in the red light of the screen, the grimness of expression and the scar cast in sharp relief, she had a hard time grasping the vast difference in their lives’ paths. A vague hope stirred in her breast. Maybe they both would get through the day alive. The gods owed them both a break, after all . . .

 

“Looks like your monkey king has decided to crash the party,” she said with a grim smile, “he’ll be here in a five minutes at most. And . . . what the fuck?”  She touched the screen, phasing through a rapid set of commands. Vegeta’s flagship appeared on the red screen, the crest of Planet Vegeta stark on its underbelly. The computer widened its focus to reveal dozens of transport ships spread behind it. Bulma’s heart hammered so loudly against her ribs that she feared her other self would hear its fevered pace. _Gods, he must have brought the entire army with him!_  Instead of honing into Vegeta’s ship, she panned out further, focusing on a lone pod moving far faster than the slow-moving transports.

 

“Who the hell is that?” scarred Bulma wondered, taking in the pod’s speed, weight, and even the power level of the occupant. It was monstrous.

 

“I have an idea,” Bulma muttered with a shudder. _Broly._  

 

“Well,” her other self said with a frightening gleam in her eyes, “let’s see how he handles this.”  Her fingers flew over the console, flicking switches, pushing buttons and turning dials. From the computer screen, Bulma watched as the sky seemed to explode into liquid fire, and push outward to the coming pod. The abstract, scientific side of her mind, ever fascinated by new tech, realized that a thin cloak of oxygen around the planet had been lit into bright red flame outside the atmosphere. A brilliant first line of defense.

 

There was no time for further contemplation. The tap of a step outside the lab and her other self turned to her, shoving a cloaking mechanism into her hands and something else. She looked down to find a storage chip and what looked like a high-powered syringe.

 

“My research. You’re the only one I trust it with. And this baby,” she tapped the syringe, “Is a nasty virus I cooked up for Ice Clan DNA, mixed with nanites to breakdown the tech I built in his skull. Think of it as my going-away present for Frieza.” A harsh, insane smile stretched across her face.

 

“If I die, I’ll go to Hell for all I’ve done. Give Trunks a kiss for me.”

 

Seized by impulse, Bulma embraced the hardened woman who had known so little love in her life. She returned the embrace fiercely, and warm, salty wetness dampened the thermal suit on Bulma’s shoulder. An instant later, she shoved her away. She cast a regretful glance at the machine, eyes abstracted. Then she snapped herself out of it. 

 

“Now hide. It’s Zarbon,” she hissed. Bulma obeyed wordlessly, activating the mechanism and laying her hand on the machine. Both she and the machine melded seamlessly with the rest of the room and Bulma frantically tried to slow her breathing. Tentatively, she reached through the bond to Vegeta, but found his mind closed off with steely concentration, his power flowing off him like sunlight.

 

The blue-skinned, stunningly attractive alien burst into the room, clad in armor and the strange earrings and circlet that she had seen on Namek, when she had swooned over him not knowing that the man standing next to him would one day be her husband. Several soldiers filed into the room after him, but not Frieza. Bulma whispered thanks for that small grace. Bulma pressed herself against the icy-cold wall, feeling naked and exposed despite the cloak.

 

 Zarbon had eyes only for her other self, who stood tall and resolute, holding a small ki-gun, similar to Bulma’s own.  Zarbon, his face set in fury, suddenly spread his hands in surrender and Bulma saw the power the other Bulma wielded. She could see the shock too, when he first laid eyes on the famed mastertech.

 

“Why have our shields been deactivated? Lord Frieza was most displeased--” he began.

 

“Cut the bullshit, Rakashi-jin! Have you even _looked_ at the readings? The entire Saiyan army is bearing down on our asses. I had to shut down the shields to make our first offensive, dipshit! If you had updated my generators like I asked you to, the shields would still be up!” Bulma stifled a bark of laughter at the dumbstruck look on the pretty-boy’s face. His golden eyes blinked stupidly for a moment before he recovered enough to say, “Have you finished your project, lady mastertech?” the other Bulma’s blue eyes darted to the corner, the slightest of smiles at her lips.

 

“I have. And tell your Lord Frieza that--”

 

Bulma couldn’t stifle a gasp as the door burst open, framing a very large Ice Clan. The sound, already muffled by the device, was lost in the ensuing shouting and movement. Zarbon obviously knew that he come for more than an idle chat and immediately changed form into the ugly, brutish lizard.

 

“Ah, Zarbon. Just the man I wanted to see.” The Ice Clan said, red eyes gleaming with malice.

 

“Zul,” growled the newly transformed Zarbon, his voice like stones grinding together, “you should be guarding the prisoner. Why are you--” _The prisoner,_ Bulma thought, _Sansai!_

 

“The little monkey will be fine for the moment. I heard the commotion. I thought I’d come and see if Lord Frieza needed any help.” There was the faintest ironical emphasis on ‘Lord Frieza’ that surprised Bulma. Every other Ice Clan seemed to worship their master. The Ice Clan Zul stepped into the room, faint red light winking around him. The soldiers looked uncomfortably from Zarbon to Zul, pointing their ki guns shakily. Zarbon laughed mockingly.

 

“Like hell you are, _traitor._ Lord Frieza was right to let me kill your whel--” he never got to finish the sentence. In a flash of red, Zul leapt across the room and buried his fist in Zarbon’s belly. Gouts of blue blood bubbled around the alabaster fist. Zul’s eyes burned like embers.

 

“That was for Kurusia. I’ll see you in Hell, Zarbon.” 

 

As the blue warrior fell dead, the soldiers screamed and blasted at Zul, their war cries turning to cries of terror as they bounced harmlessly off his ivory chest. Bulma watched as Zul killed the soldiers with the same casual nonchalance of someone killing a particularly disgusting bug. Her other self showed as little concern, watching dispassionately. When he was finished, she said, “Well fought, Zul. I wondered how long it would take you to muster the courage to break your oath. You’ve gotten yourself into some trouble. Where is the little monkey anyway?”

 

Another chirp from the computer announced what looked like a battalion of soldiers rounding the corner. Deafening noise resounded, rocking the ice tower as battle raged outside. _Woman, I’m coming! Where are you?_ Vegeta said through their bond, the heat of his power searing her. Bulma mustered the will to answer when bone-shattering pain and impact resounded in her head, like the blow of a hammer. For an instant, it was as if she inhabited his body and saw with his eyes Broly’s bulk, transformed into a massive monster, roaring and spitting with a green-gold aura and his eyes rolled back. Vegeta delivered a powerful blast, repulsing the giant. _You weren’t meant to feel that,_ he said by way of apology. _Hide. I will come for you._ Bulma pushed her concern and love through the bond, and felt the swell of response before he withdrew. He needed his full concentration to fight.

 

“Shit,” muttered the other Bulma, drawing her back to reality. Half of the oncoming soldiers were killed by blasts from Zul and ki shots from her other self, but a seemingly endless tide filed into the room, leaping over the corpses of their comrades.

Time seemed to slow.

A slender gold bolt zipped past Zul and pierced the other Bulma’s chest. Bulma clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream. Her other self sank facedown on the ice floor, her blood widening into a red puddle around her. Bulma knew with sickening certainty that her other self was dead. A handful of contemptuous blasts by Zul and all was quiet again. Bulma reached down to switch off the cloak when a hand gripped the doorframe. She started, cursing all of Frieza’s soldiers vehemently. Zul raised a hand, red light filling the palm.

 

“Zul? Is she here?” croaked an unfamiliar voice. The Ice Clan growled, reaching his tail through the door and dragged the small, dark form into the carnage-ridden room. With a shock, Bulma realized it was Sansai. Bleeding scratches on her arms, torso, and legs stood stark through the light fabric of her thermal suit, and she looked weak and worn down with dark rings under her eyes and color bled from her face. The ki dampers glowed bright and strong, even as their host seemed as insubstantial as a shadow. Her heart ached for her.

 

“Little monkey, you’re worse than a liability here, bleeding all over the place. I told you to wait,” Zul said, but Bulma, her intuition whetted by dealing with emotionally shut off Saiyans, could hear gentleness through the haughty brusqueness. Sansai waved off Zul’s concern and looked around the room. A gasp tore from her raw throat as she saw the blue-haired form in a puddle of her own blood.

 

“Bulma? Bulma!” she cried, staggering on trembling legs to the huddled body. A keening lament tore from Sansai’s cracked lips as she cradled her other self. Bulma tapped flipped the switch to turn it off and cursed when it didn’t work. She fumbled with the cloak, desperate to ease Sansai’s grief.

 

“What have they done to you? I have failed . . . I have failed,” she moaned, rocking back and forth in a paroxysm of grief. Bulma was struck by the oddly protective shadow of Zul. At last, the mechanism died and both of them flinched at the sudden appearance of a woman and a ship. Sansai’s black, tear-filled eyes looked at her in disbelief, looking from the still form in her arms to Bulma, tall and unharmed.

 

“Who the hell are you?” Zul demanded. Sansai answered for her, flinging herself at Bulma. Even half-dead from torture, Sansai was still strong enough to compress Bulma’s chest in a rib-cracking hug. Bulma laughed, patting her spiky black hair, matted with blood and standing wildly on end.

 

“Can’t breathe,” she muttered and immediately the pressure eased, “I am Bulma, the Saiyans’ mastertech.” Zul frowned, looking down at the blue-haired woman dead at his feet, rolling her over with a flick of his tail.

 

“Who’s that, then?” he demanded. Bulma looked down and saw that her other self looked peaceful. Carefully, Bulma stowed the gifts her other self had given into a capsule at her belt.

 

“That is me. The me born in this time. Gods give her peace.”

 

“Oh, naturally. The you that isn’t you.” Zul said dryly, lifting one colorless eyebrow.  Sansai frowned at the body of the woman solemnly, then turned to Bulma.

 

“We’ll talk later. Right now we have to go. King Vegeta is here. And so is . . . so is Broly.”

 

“And Frieza will send Ice Clan next. While I hate him, I loathe killing my clansmen,” Zul said.

 

“How sentimental. Fine words coming from a traitor, Commander Zul,” said a rocky voice. They turned as one to find the Ginyu squad standing on the corpses of Frieza’s soldiers. The others snickered. Zul didn’t even flinch.

 

“Well, not everyone enjoys kissing Frieza’s ass as much as you, Captain Ginyu. Rather a traitor than a catamite, I’d say,” he said calmly. The horned alien’s red eyes narrowed.

 

“Recoome, why don’t you teach this little lizard bastard some manners,” said the captain, “and Jiece, why don’t you have some fun with his ah, his lady friends?”  A red-haired giant grunted and cracked his knuckles with relish. The smaller, red-skinned alien smiled evilly.

 

“It’d be my pleasure, Cap.” Eyeing Sansai, he said, “Ah, you’re the little sheila who killed Guldo. Feisty one, you are. And you, all soft and blue, I like my ladies like that.”

 

Without taking his eyes off the ring of deadly fighters in front of him, Zul blasted the wall. Wind as cold and sharp as a knife of ice blasted through the room, jarring the corpses. Glittering white light stung her eyes. A rare sunny day in Ice Clan summer, a balmy fifty below. The room exploded into curses and movement, flashes of ki heat piercing the sparkling cold.

 

“I won’t let you escape, love,” Jiece said, making a lunge for Bulma. Zul smote him across the back with a sharp blow of his tail. Screaming in pain and frustration, Jiece fired a blast to hem them in. Bulma was pushed out of the way and heard Sansai’s grunt of pain as the blast burned her shoulder.

 

Bulma knew no more as she fell off that perilous edge, into the wind, sickening fear clutching her belly. Fierce terror mingled with the strange, unassailable thrill of a free-fall. At last, she knew what it was to fly . . .

She was too shocked to scream, falling end over end through spires of ice toward the banks of snow hundreds of feet below. Her hair and airborne pieces of snow blinded her, stinging her face, she spread her flailing limbs to slow her speed. She saw Sansai winging like a dark arrow after her and reached up. Sansai caught her, wrapping arms and legs around her, twisting to that her back was toward the ground. Bulma saw with dawning horror that the dampers were still firmly in place and the ground rose up like monster to swallow them. Sansai’s voice was calm and soft, a slight, strange smile at her lips, “I can’t fly. Brace yourself for the impact.”

Now Bulma did scream, out loud and through her mind.

_“VEGETA!”_

**

Kakkarot looked up, watching Vegeta fight Broly. He knew that the king’s power was greater than Broly’s. But his madness made him both ferocious and dogged, and no matter how his wounds wept steaming red blood onto the snow below, he kept getting up. Below the clashing titans, the Saiyans formed a tight phalanx, fighting as one, each protected from the deadly ki-killer bolts by Bulma’s shields. Battle ebbed and flowed in fire and heat around him, the tide rising against them. Kakkarot cried out and gave himself over to the anger and power that slept within him. Ice Clan fought fiercely and without care of their own safety. ‘Protect Lord Frieza!,’ the chanted, ‘Protect our perfect Lord!’

 

The tenor of the battle changed, and Kakkarot looked up to see Broly dangling Vegeta by his throat. Kakkarot blazed up toward his king, and the force of his mental energy hit him like a blow halfway there, seething with anger and grief and fear.

 

_Kakkarot! The tower!_

Kakkarot looked to the high tower of the Ice Clan city and saw two tiny figures falling to their deaths below.

 

_It’s Bulma and Sansai! **Save them, Kakkarot!**_

Fear slid into his veins like ice water, chilling the frenzy of war. With a roar, he burst into motion, flying as fast as he could; pouring every ounce of ki he had into his flight. Too far! On they fell, a sickening vision of boneless terror and helplessness.

 

_Too late._

 

 _“Sansai!”_ he screamed in agony as she hit the ground.

**

Her heart was beating. Slow and erratic, but it was beating. Sansai was alive. Bulma sat up and Sansai’s arms fell like limp noodles. The hot stink of blood filled her nose. Gods, it looked as if every bone in her body was broken. The jerky rise and fall of her chest was a cruel mockery of health, as was the twitching of her once quick and mobile fingers. Her eyelids fluttered and her black eyes opened, clouded by pain. Bulma shivered in the frigid air, even the thermal suit could not protect against such cold.  She gently brushed Sansai’s black hair from her forehead, trying hard to ignore the stickiness of blood matting it or the growing pool of it around them.

 

“Bul . . . ma . . . take . . . off,” she croaked, the fingers fluttering an inch off the ground in a gesture to the ki dampers. Her hands as soft as the graze of a butterfly’s wing, Bulma touched the broken wreckage of Sansai’s hand.

 

“I don’t want to h—hurt. . .” Bulma stuttered, tears flowing liberally. By some miracle, Sansai found the strength to laugh, a hitching gargle that brought blood bubbling up from her ruined chest past torn lips and reddened teeth.

 

“No way . . . I can be . . . more . . . pain . . .”

 

It felt like a meteor landed next to them with a heralding cloud of snow in the form of Kakkarot, shaking with the fear of what he might find. The heat of his aura was a welcome relief. He fell to his knees, weeping like a child.

 

“Oh Sansai . . . oh my love . . .” he whispered, touching her broken arm and pushing his heat and ki into her. Bulma struggled to her knees, crying out as pain overcame the shock and adrenaline of the fall. Her leg was broken. A fall of several hundred feet and all she had was a broken leg. A sodding miracle. She opened a capsule and extracted a small hammer and screwdriver. The energy helped, for Sansai spoke more easily.

 

“Kakkarot. I’m . . . I’m sorry I didn’t . . . see it sooner.” Bulma kept an ear open as she picked at the vice-like shackle of the damper around her neck. By some stretch of ill luck, they had not been damaged by the fall. Sansai, in deep shock, didn’t feel her ministrations. Kakkarot chuckled softly, a strange sort of understanding in his eyes.

 

“There is someone else, then?” he asked.

 

“You could . . . you could say that,” she replied. Bulma wormed the head of the screwdriver into a hairline crack in the damper.

 

“Brace yourself, hun. This’ll hurt.” Sansai hissed in a hiccup of breath and Bulma struck the screwdriver into the damper once, twice, three times with all her strength before the evil chain broke and fell off. The change was immediate. Her temperature soared and color flooded her skin, her countenance brightened. With fierce determination, she tore the manacles from her wrists with her broken, bleeding fingers.

 

“At last . . . I am free . . .” she whispered. Bulma smiled down at her, stroking her hair. A small corner of white caught her eye and Bulma tugged the piece of paper from under Sansai’s battlesuit. Crinkled by long usage, stained with blood, Bulma was surprised to see Trunks’ face staring back at her. She arched a brow and began to say something when a strident cry echoed through the howling air. 

 

 _“Kakkarot!”_ bellowed Broly, barreling out of the sky like a comet. The look on Kakkarot’s face chilled Bulma to the core. It was a look of blazing hate, and a grief so deep it cleaved the soul. He stood, his aura a blazing blue tinged with gold.

 

“I won’t let you hurt her, Broly!” he cried. Broly’s head tilted back and he laughed insanely.

 

“She is mine, Kakkarot. Sansai has always been mine. And you, you brainless, third-class fool, fawning over her all these years! I’ll make it so you never covet her again!”

 

Kakkarot, who had been growling and twitching during this little speech, suddenly let out a spectacular cry and ascended to Super Saiyan.

 

“I’ll kill you before I let you touch her!” he howled, flinging himself at Broly.

 

As the two of them slashed and spun in a deadly dance, Bulma scanned the skies for Vegeta and saw him, a shining golden speck in the air. As one, they surged toward each other through the bond and met in its silvery mist, emotions melding, questions asked and answered, fears soothed in their wordless fusion of soul. He moved over the pain in her leg, soothing it while anger stoked hot in his heart, swearing torture and death on his enemies’ heads. He gave her the image of his ship out on the tundra, and the regen tanks inside. She sent back the image of her air car perishing in a burst of ash and cinder by his hand. With no air car, and Sansai too weak to fly . . .

 

 _I will send Toma. He can ferry you both to the ship._ She clung to him for precious seconds longer, praying fiercely that he would not come to harm.

 

 _Be safe,_ she whispered.

She felt the impression of amusement and mocking superiority, his astral form smirking.

 

 _I’m not the one who gets into these ridiculously dangerous situations, woman._ You _are the one who needs to take caution_.

 

Toma slipped silently over the ground and when he appeared before them, lit from behind by the glow of Kakkarot, Vegeta and Broly’s ki, Bulma saw he was splashed by purple Ice Clan blood. His brown eyes softened at the sight of Sansai’s broken body.

 

“Come, little sister,” he growled affectionately, lifting her gently over one shoulder. Bulma he gathered to his side, mindful of her broken leg and together they flew over the frozen ground to the safety of Vegeta’s ship.

 

A haven of warmth and stillness after the howling wind and cold, the surprisingly spacious halls of the ship passed by her in a blur as Toma levitated swiftly to the med-bay, so as not to jar his cargo with the motion of his step. In the infirmary, a cluster of regen tanks large enough to fit Nappa stood full and humming against the wall. The rumbles and echoes of the battle outside were faint, almost overtaken by the howling wind. Dreamily, Bulma mused that Planet Vegeta and Planet Frieza, as she had dubbed it, were very similar, both deserts, one cold and one hot peopled by creatures that were too powerful and arrogant for their own good. Setting Bulma gently on one of the beds, Toma activated the nearest tank. Bulma stifled a groan at the light bounce, looking down at her denim-clad leg under the thermal suit. No bleeding, little swelling. A clean break then.

 

Toma began to drop Sansai in to the tank when she stopped him, beckoning her. Bulma winced as droplets of Sansai’s blood pattered on the pristine tiles in an abstract pattern. Leaning close, Bulma heard her say, “Make sure Zul is safe. He . . . he saved my life. I owe him . . . my honor . . .” 

 

“I will, Sansai. I promise. Now rest. Heal,” Bulma ordered sternly. Sansai gave another rattling gurgle of a laugh. Toma slid the breathing apparatus over her nose and mouth. Her eyes closed in bliss as she sank into the tank’s healing embrace. Closing the lid, Toma leapt down and rummaged through the cabinets until he found what he was looking for. He turned to her, a triumphant smirk on his gaunt, blood-splashed face. In his hand was what Bulma recognized as a bone-knit, a rudimentary healing instrument that Vegeta told her every soldier carried in his field kit. Seconds later, Bulma’s leg was whole. As soon as she was, Toma straightened; eyeing Sansai’s floating form thoughtfully.

 

“Her power will be incredible. Those lizard bastards no doubt thought that if they did not overly harm her body, it would not trigger the Saiyan healing factor. But to chain her ki is almost the same thing. And with the damage from the fall . . . gods, she’ll be strong.” Shaking off such contemplation, Toma turned to her.

 

“I must return to my men. Stay here, my lady, and you will be safe,” he said. Bulma was struck by his words. She touched his meaty forearm.

 

“So you—you don’t mind that I’m . . . that me and Vegeta are . . .” she stuttered. Toma frowned, shrugging and staring at his boots in his discomfiture. He opened the palm of his hand and raised an orb of ki, the tiny blue light rolling around with the twitch of his gore-stained fingers.

 

“Without you, I would no longer be able to do this. I would be a . . . a shadow of a warrior, no longer truly Saiyan. I and all you healed will stand with you if it comes to war.” His brown eyes were soft, the clean lines of his skull cast in an eerie relief by the light of the ki ball. He drew the power back inside him and shrugged.

 

“Besides, if any choose to protest, King Vegeta would send them to Hell before you could blink an eye.”

 

Bulma laughed softly and walked with Toma to the exit ramp. All her life she had watched from the sidelines as Goku and the others fought some desperate fight. This one would be no different. As she walked, she shrugged on a wrap against the cold. The thermal suit’s integrity was breeched, and it did nothing to warm her head. A shudder tore through her at the bitter, roaring wind that howling and screamed like a living thing.

 

“That he would. Fight smart, Toma,” she said. He smirked.

 

“I will, my lady.”

 

There was no warning.

 

In the eerie reality of a nightmare, time seemed to slow down and sped up at the same time. Bulma watched with startling clarity as a white hand thrust through Toma’s chest, crushing the fragile heart within. A scream tore from her throat. Then darkness reached out and grabbed her.

 

 

 

 

Sound and image came to her in ragged flashes, bewildering snapshots of disorienting sensation. Screeching, tearing noises. Screams. White. White everywhere. Tossed within a stormy sea, Bulma found she could not move or speak or even think clearly. Pain throbbed in the back of her head. In her mind’s eye, she saw Vegeta and she cleaved to him, as if her love could keep them both safe, away from petty mortal concerns. At last, the chaos ebbed and she became aware of where she was.

 

She lay on her side, curled in a fetal position on a cold, smooth floor. Tiny sounds reached her ears, either grunts of pain or sobbing, she couldn’t tell. Bulma mustered the will to open her eyes and did so with great effort. Where she expected a dungeon or some blank interrogation room, she saw a throne room, constructed with infinite care. Ice formed delicate sculptures, fragile and shining, a cold and deadly beauty. A denser, organic material of varying light shades—bone, she realized—was inlaid in the floor, one the throne, in the walls. She could think of nothing more grotesque, that things of such beauty were wrought with the skeletons of conquered peoples. The dazzling splendor of the room faded slowly, as Bulma’s body made its hurts known. Her throat was dry, her knees and the palms of her hands felt skinned and raw. A voice from behind startled her, rousing dread and fear when she recognized its hoarse, lisping nuances.

 

“Look Vegeta, she decided to join us.”

 

Bulma rolled over to find her husband in ki dampers chained to floor, scuffed and bleeding from small cuts all over his face and neck and arms. His kneeling posture was slumped in the same dazed weakness as Sansai. His face was without expression, but the eyes blazed into hers with hate and love mixed.

 

_Forgive me, my mate. I have failed._

 

The words were a whisper, a dark thread of thought echoing through the silver stillness of the bond. Bulma tore her tear-soaked eyes from her husband to the face of their enemy. And gasped. He was in a sleek alabaster form unlike the terror-filled glimpses she caught of him. Into his right cheek were titanium plates, holding up the sagging skin and surrounding the red eye, blood-shot with purple. His black lips curled into a mocking smile, one black-clawed hand touching the plates.

 

“Ah yes, you can thank our little monkey king for this, though I must say, the blue Earthling had quite a talent with tech. Aside from repairing my beautiful face, she made a few more . . . improvements. A pity she was killed—and her machine! I was most displeased with Ginyu for destroying it in his little tiff with Zul.” Idly, one hand tangled its fingers in the upswept flame of Vegeta’s black hair, as if absently stroking a pet. Vegeta made no move to shrug it off; it was as if all the rage that boiled inside him was trapped, as chained as his ki.

 

Frieza cast a sly glance to one side and Bulma saw the source of the noises, both Zul and Captain Ginyu were chained similarly to Vegeta. Captain Ginyu, broken and bleeding, rocked and sobbed. Zul was a picture of calm stillness, eyeing the pathetic form beside him with arrogant distaste.

 

“Ginyu used his body snatch technique to escape my wrath. I made him retake his battered body when I discovered the ruse. Sniveling fool--” Frieza growled, throwing a blast to shut him up. The blast glanced off the armor on Ginyu’s shoulder, but was enough for Ginyu to calm his sniffling. Frieza snickered, smothering the sound with one crooked finger.

 

“I will save his torture for later.”

 

 The red eyes bored into Bulma and even with her weak human senses, she felt the press of his monstrous ki, a sucking, black evil shrouded him like a bank of fog. Bored with Vegeta’s silent resistance, Frieza sauntered over to Bulma. She staggered to her feet, reaching for the ki gun tucked into her pants. Her thumb flicked it to its highest setting.

 

“This is why you are such a fortunate find, my dear,” Frieza was saying. Bulma felt a shudder of loathing and disgust bloom within her. His red eyes were terrifying; holding the promise of tortures fabricated from a diseased imagination and were utterly, completely insane. 

 

“The little wench failed to mention she was a twin. Take her place at my side. I pay far better than the little monkey king. Worlds will tremble at the sound of your name, anything you desire will be yours--”

 

Bulma interrupted his monologue by shooting him in the face with her ki gun. She took one step, maybe two, before Frieza grabbed her around the neck with his tail. Stars danced before her eyes and she clawed at the thick, immovable piece of icy muscle wound so tightly around her throat. The ki gun fell from nerveless fingers. She was nose to nose with Frieza, close enough to smell his musky breath on her face. _Kami,_ she thought, _it didn’t even faze him!_

 

“You naughty little bitch!” he hissed. His cold right hand grabbed hers and crushed it with careless cruelty. A dry scream tore from her gasping throat. Hot thorns of pain stabbed her brain, worse than she anything she’d ever felt. Her hand, composed of delicate sensors and nerves, pulleys of fragile muscle and tendon, now looked someone had taken a mallet to it. Blood dripped from her white fingertips and her mouth filled with bile. A deep, rolling snarl of impotent protest resounded from Vegeta.

 

Immediately, the pressure around her throat disappeared as Frieza dropped her. By reflex, she flung her arm out to catch herself and landed squarely on the shattered remnant of her hand. She screamed again and Vegeta was there inside her head, wrapping her in an embrace, siphoning her pain off into himself. It was then that Bulma felt the depths of his anger, twisted to intricately with his power, a deep golden well beyond limit. It was frightening. A low stream of speech whispered under the gentle tone of his comfort, a song of death in his own tongue _. I’ll kill him! I will rend him piece by piece for marring the flesh of my queen! He will pay for his dishonor with blood and pain!_ Frieza was stalking toward Vegeta, an ugly pleasure coating his voice.

 

“What this, Vegeta? Surely you don’t mind me having a little fun with your mastertech . . .” he laughed delightedly, like a child given a new toy.

 

“Wait. She’s more than that, isn’t she? I thought it was strange when my warriors captured you within minutes of the woman. They say you fell like a stone out of the sky. It was because she was knocked unconscious, wasn’t it? Hah!” Frieza lifted Vegeta’s chin with one hand, yet his eyes remained riveted forward, looking neither right nor left.

 

“Another test, then, love?” he purred. In a flash, he was towering over Bulma, and stepped on her leg, snapping it like a twig. Bulma had no more strength to scream and only moaned, reaching her good hand to Vegeta. _Oh Trunks,_ she thought through the crimson haze of pain, _I will die here. I’m sorry._   Vegeta’s face twisted into a gruesome mask of rage and pain. He burst into furious movement, throwing himself against the chains even as the chains electrocuted him with his own energy. Frieza was laughing his fucking head off, clapping his hands in delight.

 

“I’m going to have a lot of fun with this. I wonder . . . does it work both ways?” he hissed. He phased behind Vegeta. The merciless white hand snaked out and caught Vegeta’s tail, twisting it viciously. Vegeta let out a roar of pain through clenched teeth, back arched. Bulma suddenly knew the sensitivity of the Saiyan tail as liquid fire flowered up her spine and she writhed away from it, whimpering in pain. Vegeta quickly stemmed the tide, blocking the wave with his mind.

 

With a sound of infinite contentment, Frieza sighed, “Ah, what a beautiful thing the Saiyan bond is. Vegeta, you wicked monkey, I thought you filthy Saiyans were too afraid to bond.” His unsettling red gaze flickered over Bulma.

 

“She must be a good fuck. I guess I’ll have to find out,” Frieza said, walking nonchalantly toward Bulma.  

 

Vegeta growled, his face stamped with the promise a slow and agonizing death. He stood and staggered forward, stretching the slack chain taut. With a low cry, he began to power up. The crystal on the dampers shone bright as they drank his ki. Yet still, a soft blue light flared around him. The aura blazed gold and Vegeta ascended into the one thing Frieza feared above all else.

A Super Saiyan.

Then to the form beyond Super Saiyan, scorching the air with his heat, the golden electricity crackling around him. The floor broke under his feet, the force of his power shattering the delicate decorations. It felt as if the planet itself was trembling under the lash of his power. The chains snapped under the strain and, freed, he tore the spent dampers from his wrists and neck. Smiling in lethal promise, he roared, _“Frieza!_ You have mocked my honor for the last time! I am the King of all Saiyans!”

 

As they fought, each blow shattering the ice of the throne room, Bulma groped for her capsules. The other Bulma’s syringe was thick and heavy, awkward in her left hand. How the hell would she get it in him? They were moving too fast for her to see, she only caught flashes of ki or the afterimage of two bodies locked in lethal struggle. Kami, what could she do?

**

“Fucking coward!” Raditz bellowed as he watched Broly escape in his battered pod. Kakkarot, his little brother, the _Super Saiyan_ lay at Raditz’s feet, battered and panting.

 

“I’ll go after him,” he gasped, already reaching for the fresh chestplate offered him. His black battlesuit was in tatters, he had lost one glove, and his current armor was crushed and falling off him.

 

“No,” Raditz said irritably. _Shown up by my baby brother . . ._ Raditz shook himself, burying the childish jealousy at the sight of his brother’s upswept blonde hair and green eyes. He had bigger problems at the moment. He held up a hand to stem Keyuka’s stream of protests.

 

“I don’t give a shit about _turash’ya_ right now, Keyuka! Broly would slaughter you without even breaking a sweat. Do you think that would make Zuki proud? Feh!” he grunted in disgust. 

 

“King Vegeta has been captured and the battle still rages. It would be foolish to waste our warriors chasing down that mad animal.”

 

“But he could come back for Sansai . . .” Kakkarot objected and Raditz wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time why he hadn’t mated with the girl he was so mad for.

 

“He will,” Raditz interrupted, “and when he does, we will be ready for him. But now, King Vegeta has been captured. We need your strength, Kakkarot.”  All the anger sagged out of the boy and he looked up at him and for the first time. Raditz saw something soft and shining in his teal eyes, a deep brotherly love. Kakkarot laid a hand on his shoulder.

 

“You are a good man, Raditz. Brave and strong. Vegeta was smart to make you his general.”  Raditz shrugged off the hand, uncomfortable with such bald statements of admiration and aware of the eyes on them.

 

“Heh, thanks brat. Now, can we save the sissy shit until after we rescue our king?” Raditz said. The new Super Saiyan gave his goofy, idiot’s grin and saluted.

 

“As you say, General. Let’s go.”

**

He was too strong. Frieza was far stronger than he should have been. Even with Vegeta in this ascended form, the damned lizard had the upper hand. And Vegeta dared not unleash his full power, with his woman a few feet away . . . pain radiated from her like the pulse of a throbbing red heart and Vegeta’s anger kindled anew.

 

Staring into Frieza’s leering face, a thousand images crowded his brain, eloquent with humiliation and shame. So many years of pleasure in slaughter, his self-respect chaff in the wind . . . all the grief of his other self’s life welled up into one shining nub, mutating into power. Glowing with white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, Vegeta lunged at the monster of his nightmares, unleashing furious combinations that tore flesh and broke bone. It was primally, wonderfully satisfying to feel the snap and crumple of the monster’s body beneath his fists and feet. Vegeta poured all he had into that ferocious attack.

 

Reeling back from this furious onslaught, there was a perceptible change in the lizard’s demeanor; sneering contempt was replaced with a blank fury, his ki red and malevolent. Vegeta disengaged and paused, panting. To his eternal satisfaction, Frieza seemed worse off than him, bleeding, one arm hanging limp and the damaged eye swollen shut.

 

“I tire of this fight. You are strong, for a monkey. But I am the God of this Universe!” he cried, powering up and phasing out of sight. Vegeta looked around dumbly for a moment when, with preternatural certainty, he looked with horror to where Bulma was.

 

Frieza stood, using her as a shield between them, a red ki blast hovering over the fragile flesh covering her heart. His own heart hammered against his ribs, terror paralyzing his once-mighty limbs. He held out one hand in mute supplication, knowing none would be given, knowing that if he didn’t do something, he would watch her die. But there was no fear in her eyes. Pain, yes, from her wounds, and a grave reassurance meant for him. Vegeta thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in all creation. It was then that he noticed the large, wicked syringe in her good hand.

 

The world exploded into motion.

 

Raditz, Keyuka and a squad of at least a hundred Saiyans burst into the throne room, bloodied and bellowing war cries.

And Kakkarot, glowing in an orb of a Super Saiyan’s aura, knocked the blast from Frieza’s hand. In the same instant, while he was distracted, Bulma plunged the syringe through the thick white skin into his viscous Ice Clan blood. Frieza screamed and threw her away. She careened drunkenly through the air to the wickedly sharp spires on the wall . . .

Vegeta zipped forward and caught her. She let out a soft cry of relief and buried her face in his neck.

 

Vegeta watched Frieza writhe and thrash on the floor, his ki slowly shriveling. With one last, convulsive shudder, Frieza lay still, in a pool of blood. Triumphant joy burst in his heart like the most beautiful of melodies. Cradling his woman, he flew to where his men stood in a tight ring around the old monster’s corpse. With grim glee, Vegeta raised a hand and severed the Ice Clan’s head with a bolt of ki.

 

“There will be no mistaking,” he said in the charged silence, “Frieza is dead.” His eyes scanned the faces around him, some loyal, some awed by his power, but most glaring at the blood-soaked form in his arms as if she was an insect. Vegeta bent and picked up the spent syringe.

 

“My woman, Bulma of Earth, was the one who struck the killing blow. She is worthy of my throne. Does anyone dare object?”

**

Sansai dreamed of her mother. All her life, the absence of her mother was a deep, pervading ache in her soul. Father figures she had: in Paragus, in her tutors, even in Vegeta. But the mother-yearning was immitigable, soothed only recently in the form of Bulma. In her dreams, Negi appeared as she looked in vid feeds Sansai had seen of her, strong and severe next to her father. The only thing that she had inherited from her father, as far as Sansai could tell, was the pattern of her spiky black hair. The rest, her height, her eyes, the severe tilt of cheekbones, all harkened to Negi. Her mother did not speak in the dream, only smiled, a smile like the breaking of the dawn. It both soothed her yearning and made it worse . . .  

 

She heard the buzzing of the tank but didn’t open her eyes. Instead, she reveled in the warmth of her ki blooming in her blood, the blessed absence of pain. Then thought struck her like a hammer blow. The battle! She stretched out her senses in every direction. She sensed movement and the emptiness of space. They were off the Ice Clan planet then. Quickly, she scanned the kis around her. Good. Vegeta, Bulma, Kakkarot, Raditz, Bardock, Keyuka and . . . Zul? Yes, there was no mistaking the clear, sharp cold of his ki.

What the hell had happened while she slept?

Tearing off the mask, Sansai burst from the tank, dripping and shaking. She tore off her battered armor and the remnants of the bloodstained thermal suit, leaving her torn battlesuit and boots. Wild elation bubbled through every cell of her being, and she laughed. Kakkarot burst in the door, still scuffed and scorched from battle, and chewing on something. His ki was different, far stronger, and with faint golden strains filtering through her mind. A flash of memory pierced the pain-clouded fog after the fall. Kakkarot and Broly, both of them Super Saiyans . . .

 

“Sansai!” Kakkarot cried, and swept her up in an embrace, “I’m so glad you’re okay!”  Sansai, now aware of what Kakkarot felt for her, patted his back awkwardly.

 

“It was a near thing,” she said, giggling nervously. Kakkarot released her and she looked up into his face in a moment of unguarded affection. He was a friend and her squad-brother, but she felt no stirring within her, not the dreadful hunger and tenderness mixed that filled King Vegeta’s eyes whenever he looked at Bulma.

 

“Kakkarot, I--” she began, but he stopped her with the touch of a soot-stained, gloved finger over her lips.

 

“It’s all right, Sansai. I get it. I knew I waited too long. But tell me . . . is . . . is the other guy Saiyan?” he asked, serious and heartbreaking. 

 

“Of course he’s Saiyan, do you think I’d mate with a . . .” the slight flare of ki alerted her to Vegeta’s presence in the doorway, watching the scene with an arched brow. He looked cleaner than Kakkarot, but tired. His ruddy face was ashen with dark rings under his eyes. Sansai bit off the end of the sentence, scratching the back of her head. This was so embarrassing! Vegar above, she’d never even met him and still she . . . color frothed up to warm her face.

 

“Not that there is anything wrong with that . . . but, yes, he is Saiyan. Why do you ask?”

 

Now Kakkarot looked uncomfortable. He shifted from foot to foot, stumbling like a child over his words.

 

“What he means to say, Sansai, is that he wondered if you had mated with the Ice Clan Zul. You claimed you owed him your honor. Only one of Kakkarot’s limited intelligence would make such a connection.” While the words were laced with kingly disdain, Sansai noticed a tension in his manner that suggested he was wondering just as intensely. For several seconds, Sansai was too baffled to speak.

 

“No! No, Zul saved my life, and freed me from prison. I owe him a debt of honor and he alone among his people has shown a capacity for it.” Vegeta grunted.

 

“Well, aside from your Zul, we didn’t leave so much as an insect alive on that planet. It will be an arduous process, hunting down all those that are off-world, but it is the only way to decidedly end this war. We have cut off the serpent’s head and the body will soon perish too.”

 

Warring emotions battled for supremacy within Sansai. She was glad—overjoyed—that they had won, but there was a lingering sense of disappointment at not being apart of it. To hide this, she asked, “How is my lady Bulma? Was she injured in the fall?”

 

The relaxed, self-satisfied smirk King Vegeta wore fell away. The king proceeded to fill her in on all that had happened, with Kakkarot filling in the gaps. Vegeta ended with, “The techs say there is not much they can do for her hand. The nerves are crushed. They are keeping her sedated until we return home.”

 

Sansai felt overwhelming guilt rising up to choke her. Her fault . . . if only Bulma had had a stronger protector. The crippling feeling of weakness returned with a vengeance, along with the terrible knowledge of the betrayal sown into her very blood. Sansai fell to her knees before the king, sobbing.

 

“Sire, twice over my blood has betrayed you! I have failed as your lady’s protector; I am unworthy of the _mera’jah_! Relieve me of my oath, my king, so I may bring you no further dishonor! I--”

 

“Silence!” King Vegeta snapped. Sansai flinched, staring up at his thunderous face with trembling trepidation. Disgrace smote her like a blow across the face. He would dismiss her now, for shaming him with such unseemly emotion. Sansai wished she could melt into the floor. Her week of captivity seemed to have torn away her Saiyan reserve, her heart felt exposed and vulnerable, naked for any barb to pierce it. King Vegeta glanced up at Kakkarot, then jerked his chin an inch to one side. Their eyes met and held for a moment, communicating telepathically before the younger man took his leave. When the door clicked shut behind him, the hard line of Vegeta’s mouth softened.

 

“No,” he said simply. He shrugged, the red cape rippling on his shoulders. Sansai opened her mouth to ask what he meant when he continued, “I will not relieve you of your oath, Sansai.” She slumped. Would she continue to serve him, not as a squad-member and friend, but in penance for the harm done to his lady? Her meek posture only served to infuriate him and he was suddenly pacing across the med-bay, golden energy crackling around his ankles.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you? What cause do I have to punish you? Yes, your uncle and your cousin betrayed me and mine, but _you_ , Sansai, you did not. Sniveling idiot, there are none of my warriors I would trust more with my woman’s life. You sacrificed your flesh and blood so that she might be safe. Pull yourself together, soldier, before I beat some sense into you.”  Sansai breathed a sigh of relief. In the harshly worded rant, he assuaged her every fear and she loved him for it. She rose to her feet and bowed, tattooed wrist over her heart.

 

“Thank you, King Vegeta.”

**

Bulma knew the instant she saw the boy that this was no longer a dream. It had begun as a boring, repetitive dream, in this case, a visit to the dentist. She had just sat down in the chair when a boy entered the room and the entire scene disappeared like a wisp of smoke in the wind. Now she stood in a lush, green world, with a soft bluish-purple sky and several waxing moons hanging on the horizons. The boy was several inches shorter than she, with purple skin, a white mohawk and slanted black eyes. His clothing was outlandish, wild colors and fabrics mixed in an eclectic dress; yellow earrings hung from his pointed ears. He was smiling so wide his eyes were nearly closed, and stood with his arms behind his back.

 

“Welcome to my home, Bulma of Earth,” his voice was soft and gentle, like a cool wind sighing through the branches of trees. Despite his diminutive stature, there was an aura of great authority around him, a shimmering mantle of strange power that even Bulma could sense. In the same moment, he seemed laughingly young and eternally old. To her surprise, he bowed to her from the waist with a fluid, elegant grace.

 

“On behalf of the Kais, I thank you for your service. Without you, this timeline would have fallen into chaos and decay. Vegeta and his Saiyans, while inherently flawed, are far better stewards of the galaxy than Frieza. In chaos, nothing flourishes,” he said smilingly.  

 

Bulma crossed her arms and grunted in dismissal in a perfect imitation of Vegeta. _Well, this is rich,_ she thought.

 

“Ah, I was the agent of the Kais, restoring balance and all that? Thank you for coming in person, though a simple letter of your appreciation would have been enough,” Bulma sneered, scorn dripping from her words. The boy only smiled, his face devoid of any irritation.

 

“I have requested that a reward be granted to you for your service and they have agreed,” he continued, as if she had not spoken. Bulma frowned.

 

“And who are you to ask the Kais to do something for me?” she asked, almost afraid to hear his answer. The boy laughed, as high and trilling as birdsong.

 

“I am a Kai myself, Bulma. I am the Supreme Kai. There is no higher authority in the Universe.” Bulma stared blankly at the boy and wondered if she really was dreaming. Why else would the Supreme Kai be asking her what she wants?  


“This is no dream, I assure you. More specifically, this is not the brain’s rationalization of spontaneous bombardments of stimuli. I am here and speaking to you on my homeworld. Your body slumbers on the flagship on its way to Planet Vegeta.”

 

Without even appearing to move, he was immediately in front of her and touched her right hand with one finger. While her hand was whole at the moment, Bulma knew in some dim part of her mind that Frieza had crushed it and she should have been in a lot of pain. But as the boy—Supreme Kai—touched her, a cool, tingling energy crept through skin, muscle and bone, and Bulma knew that her hand would never trouble her again.

 

“There. Your pain was distracting. Now, about your gift. What is it you want? It was fear and desperation that pushed you in making the time machine. Would you wish for protection?”

 

Bulma stepped away from Supreme Kai, finding a sense of safety and clarity away from the slender, elfin form in front of her.

 

“No,” she said sharply when she found her voice, “you did a piss poor job of protecting anyone in my time and you needed me to fix this one. No, I don’t care for the protection of gods.” Her chin jutted in defiant pride.

 

“I trust Vegeta to protect me. And Trunks and Kakkarot and Sansai. Above all myself. Not you.”  A thought struck her.

 

“Are you the one that made Vegeta remember me?”

 

The hint of a frown marred the Kai’s delicate features and he shook his head.

 

“That was not our doing. Your Vegeta is a bit of a headache among the Kais.” Bulma allowed a quick smile at this. Such a sentiment would inflate his already monstrous ego.

 

“No,” he was saying, “it seemed that at the moment when both souls hung in the place between life and death, their souls were . . . tangled, so to speak. The same with Kakkarot.”

 

“Could you take it away, like a karmic bitch slap if I do something wrong?” Bulma asked. Supreme Kai’s eyes glinted with humor but he did not laugh.

 

“No Bulma, it doesn’t work that way. The memories and emotions are indelibly linked between the two selves. To try to untangle them would drive him mad. Or kill him. Now, your wish?”

 

Bulma waved a hand, almost trembling with relief. How deep had that fear resided within her, that one day he would simply forget who she was to him, even with the bond?

 

“What of wealth? The Universe has been corrupted often for the sake of greed,” Supreme Kai said softly, with the weary authority of one who had seen millennia of every conceivable mortal vice.

 

“Money I have. Intelligence and beauty too,” Bulma said with no small amount of pride. She wound a finger through her hair, thinking hard. She paused, looking at the soft blue strands curled around her finger. While she looked damned good for a woman pushing forty, in a few years her hair would turn gray, her body would deteriorate, and she would die, before Vegeta had even passed a quarter of his lifetime. A slow smile spread across her features.

 

“Yes, Supreme Kai. There is something you can help me with,” she paused to word the wish carefully, as she had so often with Shenron, “I wish that anyone who is or will be mated to a Saiyan will share a natural life span equal to their mate.”

 

Supreme Kai smiled.

 

“Well spoken. I knew I was right to trust your intellect.”

 

Supreme Kai touched her again and Bulma laughed when she saw herself lying in the bed on Vegeta’s ship. Hair long and lustrous, her face was that of a woman in the flower of her youth. Hope bubbled inside her, the hope and joy of many long years ahead of her with Vegeta. In that moment, all her bitterness against the gods, against the Universe, her envy of its unflagging happiness evaporated. As she shed its ashes, her hate seemed foolish.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered.

 

“You are welcome, Bulma. Now,” the change in his tone made her turn from the image of herself. His narrow, smiling face was suddenly serious, liquid black eyes burning with urgency.

 

“I must tell you, some of the other Kais are concerned about this time machine of yours. They wanted me to destroy it completely--”

Fear clutched her breast and she grabbed his cool hand in desperation.

 

“Oh, Supreme Kai, please, you have to let me go back . . . I have to get Trunks and . . .” his free hand patted hers in abstracted comfort.

 

“Never fear. I refused to destroy it. I give you leave to go back and collect your son. Then you may return here. His power will be needed for what is to come. But this I charge you: you must go back and warn Kakkarot—or Goku, as you say—and the others of Earth’s warriors of the androids. There is much that is needed in that timeline, so by the order of the Kais, you must obey. After that is done, I will come again and take the machine. If you attempt to build another, the knowledge will elude you.”

 

Bulma nodded. This was no a bad deal, after all. She had not thought past getting Trunks and returning here.

 

“I agree,” she said. Supreme Kai nodded, smiling and youthful again. He waved his hand and they were suddenly in front of a waterfall. The water was clear and beautiful, refracting spangled prisms of light that dazzled her eyes.

 

“Through there is the way to your body,” he said. Bulma bowed to him, tears of thanks welling in her eyes. He grinned, both regally gracious and mischievously elfin at the same time. She turned to go when he said, “There is one more thing, Bulma.” She looked at him over her shoulder with a frown.

 

“What is it, Supreme Kai?”

 

His face stern again, he replied, “In your time, three years have passed since you left.”

 

Bulma gasped as Trunks’ image appeared before her in the waterfall. Bulma covered her mouth with her hand at the sight of him. He was seated on the roof of Capsule Corp, looking up at the stars, something she hadn’t seen him do in many years. He was dressed in the pants and muscle shirt she made for him; she saw his sword sheathed beside him. His hair hung past his shoulders, bound in a neat ponytail with his bangs hanging in his face. On his chin grew a neat beard, set on a face as stern and handsome as his father’s. His eyes were piercing and a little sad. Bulma’s heart broke for him.

Three years, thinking her dead or abandoned him . . .   

 

Supreme Kai’s voice broke her shocked contemplation.

 

“He has matured much in these three years. The people follow him without question; he has grown in both wisdom and strength. He has become a prince. I would not take that from him, Bulma.” As much as she hated it, Bulma knew he was right. Though there was a haunting edge of sadness to his unguarded posture, she saw too the authority and pride he wore like a tailored coat. In her absence, Trunks had become a man. And Kami knew if he hated her for it.

**

Vegeta keyed in the lock code to his room and let the weariness of the day envelop him like a wet blanket. They had lost many good warriors in taking the Ice Clan planet, and there was still so much unfinished, as in the case of Broly, but there was time enough to rest. The room, extravagantly large on a ship of this size, was cast in darkness save for the porthole, allowing in the silvery ambiance of the stars. His woman’s soft breathing was the only sound over the hum of the ship.

 

He stripped off his clothes and slid naked into bed behind her, careful not to jar the mattress and hurt her hand. It wasn’t until he slid his arm around her that he noticed the difference. Humans aged differently than Saiyans, he knew, and so he disregarded the faint lines on her face or softening muscle tone. But now . . . now her skin was soft and pliant with the slender tautness of a woman in her prime.

 

“Bulma?” he growled softly, carefully turning her over. Her face was as clean and unlined as it had been when he first saw her on Namek. Gods, even then she had drawn him. What was it he had called her, mooning like some idiot boy?

 

“Gorgeous . . .” he whispered, brushing a few wayward strands of her hair from her face. He leaned over to see if this miraculous transformation had healed her hand and was not surprised when he saw that it had. Chuckling softly, he kissed her brow. He wondered if she had a youth’s endurance. They were still many light-years from home . . .    

 

“Woman,” he whispered, raining kisses on her face in the way she liked, “Bulma.”

 

She did not stir. Vegeta felt a flash of panic and shook her.

 

“Bulma!” he cried. No answer.

 

Vegeta struggled to master the irrational terror flooding his veins. Was this all a cruel joke, to come in and find her healed and young, but locked in some unending sleep? Vegeta rushed through the bond, but even that route was blocked to him. He slammed into a glass wall of mental energy, far stronger than anything he had ever sensed. Did some evil being hold her captive? Was he hurting her? The thought nearly drove him mad and he beat against the wall with futile desperation. When he had exhausted his weary strength, he laid his head against her breast and listened to the reassuring beat of her heart. His tail found its favorite resting place around her thigh.

 

Despite his resolve to stay vigil over her, fatigue overwhelmed him and he slipped down toward sleep. Had he not been so tired, he would have noticed the slight change in the cadence of her breathing, the speed of her heartbeat. Then her hand in his hair might not have been such a shock. As it was, Vegeta nearly leapt off the bed at the gentle stroke. He glared down at her. Blue eyes stared up at him, as guileless as a summer’s sky.

 

“Vegeta?” she said, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. His anger melted into relief. He bent and kissed her hard, some vengeful desire wanting to bruise those petal soft lips for making him afraid. When they were both breathless, he hissed, “You have some explaining to do, woman.” Her story was almost too incredible to believe. Supreme Kai . . . _the_ Supreme Kai had given her a gift—and she had dared sass the most powerful being in the Universe. Pride swelled in his heart. Yes, the two of them were a perfect match.

 

“How long will we be like this, Vegeta?” she asked, fingertips tracing his features. He frowned.

 

“I don’t know. It is not the way of my people to live to old age. My father was over two hundred years old before he died. A hundred years, maybe more . . .” she gasped and he looked down to see tears in her eyes. He tensed. She touched his brow to still him.

 

“I’m so happy. A hundred years with you . . . Heaven couldn’t be any better.”  Vegeta felt peace slide its silken wings over his soul.

 

“Well, I can think of a few things better,” he purred.

 

“Really? What did you have in mind?” she whispered, her voice hoarse and sexy. With a soft growl, he parted the silk robe she wore. Gods, she was so beautiful! She took his breath away. Vegeta stretched over her, and kissed her, slow and sweet.

 

 _I loved your body before, woman, you were beautiful to me,_ he whispered through the bond. Their souls tangled together, thoughts, emotions and sensations washing like an ebbing tide through them both.  

 

 _And now?_ She asked.

 

 _Now there is no creature anywhere that could match you, my queen,_ he punctuated each word with a kiss, meandering his way down her neck, _my mate,_ he lavished her breasts with his lips and tongue, _my love._

She moaned, writhing beneath him, her hands fisted in his hair. It struck Vegeta, as it did at odd moments, the halcyon colors of her were opposite to her personality. Passion animated all she did and all she was. The blue eyes that were locked with his blazed like the hottest flame, and her pale skin, looking as cool and fragile as porcelain in the starlight, burned beneath his hands. Trembling with arousal himself, he continued his languorous trail of kisses down her taut belly. Gods, she inspired such contradictions in him. He reveled in his power to play her senses to the tune he desired while at the same time was frightened of the overwhelming impulse to fall on his face and worship her. She saw the truth of it through the bond and chided, _Vegeta, never be afraid of loving me. There is no way you can love me more than I love you._

 

He grunted in response.

 

_Is that a challenge, Bulma?_

 

 He parted her thighs insistently, and shivered in painful anticipation at the sight of her so exposed. Vegeta cast her one devilish glance before settling to his task. He nuzzled the soft skin of her inner thighs, feeling the fevered pounding of her femoral arteries against his cheekbones. Gently, he set his mouth to her, delighting in each shiver and twitch of pleasure. Her taste and scent were intoxicating and he delved deeper in a slow, erotic rhythm, holding her thighs wide to give him better access. The hands in his hair clenched and relaxed in time with the strokes of his tongue. The soft, broken sounds she made were music and he felt her coil and lash in the beginning spasms of climax. He withdrew, crawling up her body and kissing her parted lips, giving her the taste of herself.

 

 _Not yet, my mate,_ he whispered, _I want to be inside you when you--_ She reached around and grabbed his tail, kneading it gently and any rational thought was forgotten. He plunged inside her, breath sobbing from his lips at the tight, liquid internal clasp. Her legs wrapped around him, hips rocking in time with his forceful thrusts. His name was a litany on her lips.

 

“Yes . . . yes . . . yes,” he purred, his voice a raw whisper. It was a parody of battle, he thought, both of them fighting to educe a greater reaction. They strained against each other, as if to tear away the thin barrier of flesh that kept their souls from inhabiting the same body. All thought dissolved into the mindless bliss of climax, a delicious fusion of body and soul.

 

When the last aftershocks faded and they lay meshed together in a confused jumble of bedclothes, Vegeta framed her face between his hands. He stared at her for a long moment, drinking in every nuance of her face in the murky semi-darkness.

 

“You will leave.” The words hung in the steamy air with the slightest ring of accusation. Unflinching, Bulma wound her arms around his neck, “Yes, I will leave. And I will come back. I don’t want to leave anymore than you want to see me go, but I will go for our son.”

 

Vegeta nodded. There was a part of him, far larger and more prominent than he wanted to admit, that was eager to meet the boy. Yet, in the same instant, he was cowed by his own inadequacies. Less than two months ago, he was a bachelor. Now, almost overnight, he was a mate and father. What the hell would he say to the boy when he saw him? He had grown to manhood raised by gentle Earthling mores and values. The Saiyan ways would baffle him and any misstep would only give power to their detractors. The depth of their connection had not waned and Bulma saw all this in a stream of consciousness. She did not offer platitudes to soothe him, but only said, “It will be all right. We’ll figure something out.” The tension that had built in his muscles ebbed and he laid his head on her breast, savoring the sound of her heartbeat.

 

“Sansai was . . . upset when I told her about your hand. The idiot girl begged me to release her from her oath. She thought she had disgraced herself as your protector.” Here, in the warm darkness, naked in bed with his woman, there was no need to mask the affection in his tone. Bulma laughed softly, hands idly caressing his back, raking over the muscles with just a hint of fingernail. The ticklish sensation was blissful and it was all Vegeta could do to keep from arching his back like a cat.

 

“Kami, I love that girl. She doesn’t even seem to realize how wonderful she is. To her, it’s only her duty, her honor, her loyalty.”

 

Vegeta grunted in agreement. After a contemplative silence, he said, “She is close now.” He felt the questing probe of her thoughts and discarded formal speech in favor of the swift and intimate communion of the bond.

 

_What I mean is that before too long there will be a female Super Saiyan around here. This makes her the perfect candidate._

_For what?_ Bulma wondered, seeing in his mind fragmented images of his designs for the future.

 

_For going back with you, of course. You said yourself the only reason the boy hadn’t defeated the tin cans yet was because he was outnumbered. If he had another Super Saiyan to fight with him then he could destroy them._

_Why not send Kakkarot with me?_

 

Vegeta snorted.

 

_The boy will need an ally with a full set of wits, Bulma. Besides, it would seem odd for Kakkarot to mysteriously disappear so soon after ascending. There would be talk. Sansai hasn’t transformed yet._

 

Vegeta grunted in wry, ironic amusement.

_It’s almost embarrassing. Kakkarot_ and _Sansai? Gods, every idiot is going to think he can transform now._

Bulma laughed and rolled her eyes.

 

 _You’re right. Sansai is perfect. Besides, she_ is _in love with him . . ._

 

Confused, Vegeta looked up and saw no hint of jest in her manner. Bulma quickly related Sansai’s cryptic words to Kakkarot and Trunks’ picture in her battlesuit.

 

_So that’s the Saiyan she was telling Kakkarot about! How is this possible? She has never even met the boy!_

_Vegeta,_ she said in exasperation, _technically, you had never met me until a month ago. Look how that turned out._  

 

Vegeta considered it and nodded reluctantly.

 

_It is settled then. With any luck, they will wait to make a brat. The palace will have enough brats running around as it is._

 

He delighted in her irritation and baffled giggles.

 

_Vegeta, does Trunks not get a say in this? What if he’s found a mate already?_

 

He smirked.

 

 _If he’s any son of mine, he’ll have no less than his equal in body and mind. No human bimbo will hold him. He’ll see Sansai and be on her before you can whistle a Moontime tune._  There was another brief silence as Bulma turned over his words in her head.

 

 _Wait, Vegeta, what did you mean by ‘the palace will have enough brats?’_  Vegeta lifted his head to look into her eyes.

_Raditz and Seripa mated during Moontime. Their son is due in a few months as well as several others of the guards and . . . well, you’re pregnant, woman. Another son._

Silence stretched between them and Vegeta frowned at her stunned expression.

 

“Do you want it?” he asked aloud, perturbed by the deep, pensive stillness. Then a beautiful smile broke out on her face and joy echoed through every chamber of her being like a glorious song.

 

“Of course! A baby . . . I . . . I always wanted several children and when . . .” dark memories tempered her happiness to an edge, making it richer and deeper. She kissed him fiercely and he found her excitement infectious.

 

“What do you think of the name ‘Vegeta?’” she asked when they could breathe again. Vegeta smiled brilliantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the last chapter in this first book of the Sands of Time Trilogy. I'll begin posting book 2 "Breaking Dawn" forthwith!


End file.
